


Academy Life or: How Two Genius Loners Met and Became BFFs Despite Themselves

by DiamondBlue4



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:00:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 40,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27686615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiamondBlue4/pseuds/DiamondBlue4
Summary: “A riddle, wrapped inside a mystery, inside an enigma” – that historical quote is, in Dr. Leonard McCoy’s mind, a perfect description of Jim Kirk.Without intending to be, McCoy finds himself drawn to the solitary cadet, intent on peeling back the layers to discover the truth about the young man the entire Academy is talking about. As Kirk’s physician of record, he needs to remain objective and impartial. But the charisma and intelligence that is James Tiberius Kirk is a mesmerizing lure, especially when the infamous cadet continues to insist Leonard – “Bones” – is his friend and most trusted companion. When their unlikely friendship continues to thrive and deepen, McCoy realizes he is firmly caught in a growing dilemma.Who is Jim Kirk really? And, once he knows, will McCoy be able to find a balancing point between friend and doctor that won’t result in Jim disappearing from his life?
Relationships: James T. Kirk & Leonard "Bones" McCoy
Comments: 175
Kudos: 143





	1. CHAPTER ONE

A/N Yes, I’m back! It’s been a crazy year. (I’m sure many of you can relate.) As Dickens said so memorably in A Tale of Two Cities, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…” The Real World brought the pandemic – but also a 3-book contract from a publishing company, and so much of my time has gone to writing the three science fiction novels that will soon be published. (If you’re interested, see the Notes below for more details.)

It’s been nearly two years since I posted Let Us Give Thanks, my Thanksgiving story about a very young Jim Kirk – and, hey, it’s nearly that time of year again! (I guess it’s true that all things are new again, given enough time. Grin.) This story is set in that same world, although Jim is twenty years older now, and far less innocent.

My hope is to update this story on a regular basis going forward, writing about the evolving friendship between my two favorite Star Trek men, but – fair warning – between being a slow writer, working with the delightful InhoePublishing on co-authored stories, and Real World deadlines, updates may not occur as frequently as I would prefer. If that doesn’t scare you off, read on, and enjoy!

**CHAPTER ONE**

Leonard McCoy surveyed the crowded mess hall with a frown. He couldn’t see an empty table anywhere and, in fact, few empty seats at any of the crowded tables. It had been the same situation day after day, for the last month. _Why the hell does Starfleet schedule all the cadets for lunch at the same time?_

Shaking his head, Leonard surveyed his meager choices for a seat.

A nearby table for six held a group of five cadets who seemed to be more interested in deliberating bumping their fellow tablemates’ elbows as they tried to eat, throwing bits of food and stealing off someone else’s plate, than in actually eating.

_No thanks._

His next option included a trio at a four top who, if his hearing was accurate – and it was – were each speaking a language other than Standard. He couldn’t discern whether they were practicing language skills or just quizzing each other. The cacophony was mind-numbing.

_God, no._

Straining his neck, he peered the length of the room, searching for some other choice. He should have just stuck to a sandwich, like he’d done every day since he’d arrived, and headed for a quiet spot on the quad. But he was sick of sandwiches. And today’s soup had looked appetizing, a hearty minestrone with plenty of vegetables. So he had impulsively selected the soup, which was now growing cooler as the tray grew heavier in his hands.

An arm waved in the distance, and Leonard recognized D’linth, a Tellerian medical-school cadet from one of the sections he had been assigned to teach. The entire table for eight was filled with Tellerians, except for one open seat, and Leonard felt his heart sink. Not that D’linth wasn’t a fine person. But like all Tellarians, he loved to talk. And debate. And ask questions. More than once, he’d monopolized the discussion material in class. Just yesterday, Leonard, in exasperation, had finally had enough and testily reminded him this was a _group_ discussion class for medical students, not a debate forum. Looking sheepish but not at all distressed, D’linth had managed to refrain from another question for an entire ten minutes before waving his arm again, much as he was doing now.

_An entire table of individuals devoted to questions and arguments? Hell, no!_

Letting his gaze sweep past as if he hadn’t noticed the man, Leonard heaved a sigh of profound relief. There, against the windows, was an empty seat at a table for two. The bright light pouring through the windows had caused him to miss it on his first survey of the crowded room. But now, firmly in his sight, it looked like a serendipitous opportunity to enjoy his lunch, courtesy of the universe. 

Determined, Leonard hurried to claim it as quickly as possible without spilling his soup, before someone else beat him to it.

He reached the chair, suddenly aware that quite a few pairs of nearby eyes were closely watching him. It was a mystery he would save for future consideration. Right now, all he wanted to do was sit down and eat his soup before it got any cooler.

Setting his tray down safely on the table with a sigh of relief, he pulled the chair out, preparing to sit. But before he could do so, a coldly polite voice halted him in his tracks.

“Find another seat. I’m studying.”

Leonard looked down on the well-groomed, golden head that hadn’t even bothered to look up as the cadet tried to chase him off. “Congratulations,” he drawled, allowing the sarcasm that was never far beneath his skin these days to richly color his voice. “And I’m eating, which is what you actually do in a mess hall.” He sank into the empty chair with a small grunt of satisfaction and picked up his spoon. “Go ahead and pretend I’m not here. Please. I’m fine with the quiet. The last thing I want to do is try and make small talk with another wet-behind-the-ears cadet.”

Leonard swallowed a spoonful of soup in the silence that followed – thankfully still plenty warm and just as tasty as he had hoped – pleased with his response to the arrogant youngster.

The golden head lifted abruptly, and Leonard found himself staring into the icy blue eyes of the kid from the shuttle.

The ice melted instantly, replaced by a wide grin. “Bones! How’s it going? I’ve been meaning to look you up and make sure you were managing okay.”

“Bones?” Leonard echoed, confused as much by the warm welcome as the strange name by which he had just been addressed. “My name is Leonard—“

“—McCoy. I know. You introduced yourself to me on the shuttle ride in.”

“Then why are you calling me Bones?” Leonard asked, irritated.

It didn’t seem possible, but the blonde’s broad grin widened still further and a mischievous glint lit the vivid blue eyes. “Leonard sounds so…stuffy. Bones is a much better name. And you chose it yourself, remember? ‘All I’ve got left is mah bones.’” The kid’s drawl was a surprisingly spot-on imitation of his Southern accent.

Leonard gave him a dark look. “Cute. But I prefer Leonard. Or Len. You can keep your ridiculous nickname.” He managed to eat several more spoonfuls of soup in peace before the kid addressed him again.

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“What question?” he asked, then mentally kicked himself for responding.

“How are you doing? Here at the academy? Obviously, you survived your hangover on the first day. You’re looking good, Bones, even if red isn’t your best color.”

Leonard grimaced. “These uniforms are ridiculous. I’d like to throttle whoever designed them.” He swallowed more soup. “ _And_ the fools who created all the idiotic rules we’re required to follow.”

The young man cocked his head. “Like what?”

“Curfew, for one. In your room by 2300? I’m not a teenager, for Christ’s sake.”

“Be glad you’re a fully trained physician. Doctors get more privileges. Until the probationary period ends, curfew for a regular cadet is 2200.”

“Ridiculous.” Leonard was aware he was repeating himself but it felt good to vent to someone who wasn’t immediately offended that he’d insulted their precious Starfleet Academy.

“What else?”

“Doesn’t your arm get tired of salutin’ on the way to class? Not to mention I’m expected to know, and immediately recognize on sight, every goddamn rank this institution bestows, just by the stripes and insignia on a uniform. I can’t decide if that requirement is the pinnacle of egotistic vanity or just bat-shit crazy. What matters is competence. Longevity will probably ultimately Peter-principle a serious number of assholes into the officer ranks.”

The kid laughed. “Did you somehow miss the fact that you were joining a military organization, Bones?”

“I must have been out of my goddamn mind. I’m too old for this shit.”

“Didn’t medical school have a lot of rules? I mean, you’re a board-certified surgeon in several specialties. That must have required a lot of discipline. You might have been a teenage medical phenom but that would have meant crap to your instructors.”

Leonard snorted, surprised to find that he was thoroughly enjoying himself, despite the whisper of unease in the back of his mind. “Medical schools and residency programs have rules in place for good reasons.”

“Such as?”

“To keep you from accidentally killing anyone.”

“Good point,” the kid admitted. “Although, in my experience, the medical world isn’t all that different from Starfleet.”  


“Yeah? Well, for the most part, nobody in a civilian hospital cares what a doctor wears to work as long as it’s clean and neat. Here, you can’t attend class unless you’re in uniform.” He plucked at the bright red sleeve of his jacket. “ _This_ uniform. I received a warning from some snot-nosed kid at least ten years my junior the third day I was here. I was on my way to Starfleet General in scrubs, and he stopped me. Grilled me about being out of uniform. So now, in order to avoid a repeat of the situation, I have to dress in this monkey suit just to get to work! And put it _back_ on afterwards! Ridiculous!” The little voice in his head that had been trying to get his attention throughout his rant finally made itself heard. “Wait… how did you know I’m board certified in multiple specialties? Or that I was admitted to medical school at nineteen?”

The kid looked unruffled by his narrow-eyed stare. “I looked you up on Starfleet’s database. I meant to find you sooner, but I’ve had a lot of exams. Still, that’s mostly behind me now, so I should have more free time soon. And probation is over on Friday at 1700 hours. Which means the uniform requirements, among other things, will relax.”

There were so many things wrong with that explanation, he hardly knew what to address first. “What do you mean, you looked me up? That information is part of my personnel file and it’s supposed to be private.”

“Is it?” The kid’s blue eyes radiated innocence. “I didn’t have any trouble accessing it. But don’t worry about it, Bones. If you don’t want anyone else to know you’re awesome, I won’t tell.”

Leonard opened his mouth, hesitated, then, refusing to take the conveniently dangling bait, said in his best Attending voice, “And what makes you think I want to spend any time with you? I don’t even remember your name.”

“Because I’m awesome, too, Bones.” The grin was back. “And it’s Kirk. Jim Kirk.” The young man pushed back from the table and stood up. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go. I have another challenge exam in ten minutes and I can’t be late or the higher-ups will make me take Basic Warp Engineering next semester, even though it would just be a waste of my time. But don’t worry, it’s almost the weekend. How about having a drink together on Saturday night? We can wear civvies on the weekends unless we’re in class, or the library, or on duty, or officially representing Starfleet, because probation will be over.”

The audacious flood of information left him momentarily dumbfounded. By the time he got his tongue and brain in sync, all he could see of Jim Kirk was the back of his blonde head as he strode towards the exit.

Leonard half stood and shouted at the red-clad back of the straight-shouldered cadet, “That’s against the damn rules, too, you idiot! No alcohol allowed on campus! Didn’t you read your orientation manual?”

The only response he received was a cheery wave before Kirk disappeared.

He sat back down, thoroughly disgruntled, and picked up his spoon.

_And how the hell does Kirk know I don’t have hospital duty on Saturday evening?_

He swallowed a mouthful of soup.

A drink sounded good, though. Right now, he’d sit down with the devil himself, if it meant he could enjoy a glass of bourbon on the rocks.

Maybe he’d just wait and see what Saturday night brought his way. Smiling, Leonard scraped a last spoonful of soup from his bowl.

He didn’t even mind that it was cold.

* * *

“I’ll expect a ten-page paper that discusses the treatment modalities for Argellian encephalitis and their concomitant risks by the end of class next Friday. A week should be more than sufficient time for this assignment. If there are no further questions, class is dismissed.”

Following immediately on the heels of the professor’s pronouncement, a muffled boom sounded and, at the same time, the floor shivered beneath his feet.

Leonard blinked, wondering stupidly for a moment if San Francisco had imported a strong, Southern thunderstorm to accompany today’s non-stop rain, or if one of the off-world students was expressing their alarm at the homework assignment with some strange, heretofore hidden ability.

Leonard snorted at his fanciful thoughts. The likeliest explanation was a small-scale temblor. Starfleet had, after all, ignored common sense when they chose to locate the Academy in an earthquake zone.

When nothing more occurred, he shook off his startlement and gathered up his pad and stylus. Tucking them into his leather messenger bag, he shrugged resignedly into his still-wet rain gear. Then, prepared to venture into the inhospitable elements awaiting him outside, he trudged wearily toward the door, surrounded by an excited flood of students eager to celebrate the arrival of the weekend and the end of the probationary period’s restrictions.

It had been raining all day and he was heartily sick of the cold dampness that managed to find its way into the very marrow of his bones. Exiting the building, he saw that low, dark clouds still hung threateningly, creating an early dusk, instantly making him homesick for the blue skies and heat of his Georgia birthplace.

As if sensing his glum mood, a distant siren began to wail mournfully across campus. It was soon joined by a second, then a third. Despite the distortion created by the buildings, it sounded as if they were moving ever closer.

He hesitated, his medical instincts on sudden alert. The throng of chattering cadets parted effortlessly around his motionless form, like a fast-moving stream flowing around an immoveable boulder, seemingly oblivious to the ominous lamentations that weren’t, he realized now, all that far away.

Then the sirens abruptly stopped, leaving him standing uneasily in the strengthening downpour, with only his heightened nerves for company.

Shaking his head, Leonard forced himself to move. The walk to his quarters was a long one. The sooner he arrived, the sooner dry, more comfortable clothing and a hot cup of coffee would be his. He should stop imagining disasters. The hospital would find him, if they needed his services. And it was likely only a drill of some kind. There had already been a number of them, his least favorite being last week’s 0300-hours fire alarm drill. He had really wanted to choke someone over that one, having only been asleep for two hours, thanks to a late night spent finishing assignments for the next day’s classes.

Fifty minutes later, fresh from a hot shower and clad in jeans and a warm fleece over his tee-shirt, he cradled a reviving cup of coffee while considering his options for dinner. With the probationary period officially over, he was now free to venture off campus in civilian clothing. But even the idea of food that hadn’t originated in the mess hall, or in a replicator, didn’t seem tempting enough to entice him to brave the elements again.

His small suite of rooms in medical housing – an enlistment perk he had received as a fully licensed and board-certified multi-specialty physician – was warm and cozy. The entire building had proven to be a quiet residence despite its size. The other inhabitants were, for the most part, men and women who, while no longer cadets, were deep in their respective medical residency training. His odd status as both a first-year cadet and an experienced physician – one who had seniority over them when on duty at Starfleet General – left him isolated from the casual friendships that existed based on shared circumstances or disciplines.

Which suited him just fine. After a day of crowded lecture halls and classrooms, the tranquil privacy of his rooms was a godsend.

He hadn’t cooked in a while, he mused. Not since joining Starfleet, despite having had the little apartment kitchen stocked with basic necessities – another service perk of medical housing. He had eggs and cheese and vegetables in the chill-freeze. Biscuit ingredients were in the cupboard. All in all, an omelet and a hot batch of biscuits sounded like an ideal Friday-night supper.

He had just finishing chopping onions and peppers, and was carefully dicing tomatoes, when his communications panel chimed, signaling an incoming call. At the same time, he heard his portable communicator beep from the bedroom, where he had left it sitting on the bedside table while he showered and re-dressed. Cursing under his breath, he hastily wiped his hand on a towel, berating himself for forgetting to set his status to Do Not Disturb.

Striding across the room, he punched the Connect key on the wall panel. “Yes?” he snarled, annoyed at the interruption to his evening.

“Dr. McCoy? It’s Glen Yang.”

Glen Lang was an emergency medicine resident. Len had worked several shifts at Starfleet General with him, and had found him to be competent, if somewhat pedantic. Uncharacteristically, he looked a bit harried on the monitor screen.

“What can I do for you, Glen?” he asked, modulating his tone and re-arranging his expression to a less annoyed one.

“I’m sorry to disturb your evening, Dr. McCoy, but I…I need your help. If you’re willing… that is…I…there’s no one else here to ask…”

“Where’s your Attending?” Starfleet was a stickler for having an Attending on shift at all times in the Emergency Room, one whose main job was to oversee the more inexperienced residents and medical students.

The young resident grimaced. “Dr. S’Loom is in the OR, sir. I’m in charge until the On-Call Attending arrives.”

Which wasn’t him, since he had the weekend free for the first time since enlisting.

“So, what do you need, Glen?” he asked, mollified by the news that he wasn’t being called in to cover for S’Loom.

“One of the cadets from the collapse is refusing to be examined, and he really should—"

“What collapse?” he asked, startled.

“A containment chamber in the engineering lab failed while a dilithium crystal was being cut. It blew out the back wall of the lab and heavily damaged an adjacent stairwell. Which, unfortunately, was being used by a number of cadets who had just been released from class. Fourteen injured, four with significant injuries. Crews are still combing through the wreckage but it’s beginning to look like the authorities have accounted for everyone.”

 _That muffled boom. The faint shiver of the floor._ “Jesus Christ!”

“Everyone who’s come in from the site says it’s a miracle no one died. The cadet who’s refusing treatment had a lot to do with that, according to the first responders. He took charge in the immediate wake of the explosion, and managed to extricate several of his fellow cadets before the stairwell completely collapsed. He actually climbed the debris pile to pull people out, including the young woman Dr. S’Loom took to surgery,” Glen said, an incredulous edge to his voice. “Everyone else involved has been examined and released, or admitted, but the cadet in question keeps saying he’s fine, despite the stasis bandage he’s wearing on his forehead.” Glen’s face grew larger in the viewscreen and his voice lowered to a near whisper, as he leaned in closer to the camera. “It’s against regs to discharge him without an exam, sir.”

Len sighed. “Of course, you shouldn’t let him leave, unexamined. He’s the patient. You’re the doctor. Tell him to quit being a jackass and let you do your job.” He rolled his eyes. “These kids all think they’re invincible heroes.”

“But, sir, he is refusing to let me perform an examination,” Glen said tartly, annoyance, and a bit of what Leonard suspected was hurt pride, clearly visible in his dark eyes. “That’s why I contacted you. Cadet Kirk says, if he has to have an exam in order to leave, the only doctor he’ll let perform one is you.”

_Kirk._

Leonard’s mind immediately flashed back to the charismatic grin and dancing blue eyes of the man seated across the lunch table from him earlier in the week.

“Would that be Jim Kirk?”

Glen’s countenance instantly cleared. “So, you do know him! That’s great, sir. Really great. Your name wasn’t listed on his medical file as his Doctor of Record or we would have contacted you right away. How soon can you get here?”

Leonard opened his mouth, intending to set Glen Yang straight…and heard himself say instead, “Key in the request for an emergency consultation. I’ll transport over and be there in five minutes.”

“Of course, sir. Consider it done.” Glen began tapping on the PADD in his hands. “See you in a few, sir,” he said, cheerfully, and terminated the call.

Exiting his bedroom Len cast a regretful glance at the brightly lit kitchen. Dinner would have to wait. Cursing under his breath, he strode from the warm sanctuary of his suite, heading with long strides for the transporter station on the ground floor of the residence hall, a station that had been expressly installed to handle situations that might require medical personnel to make a fast, on-site arrival at Starfleet General.

 _At least I won’t have to brave the foul weather outside_ , he thought, grimly, and quickened his pace.

He’d set the young idiot straight in no time at all. Jim Kirk was, after all, in _his_ world now.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

Len took a moment to check that he’d made it through the transportation cycle intact, surreptitiously wiggling his fingers. Reassured that he had been correctly reassembled, he blew out a gusty breath of relief, before stepping off the transporter platform.

“Good evening, sir.” The tech manning the console picked up a PADD and held it out to him. “Dr. Yang said to give this to you when you arrived. He apologizes. He would have been here to meet you but he got paged to see another patient and couldn’t wait.”

“I understand. Thanks,” he said, accepting the device.

The transporter room was just a short walk from the heart of the emergency room. Leonard made his way briskly down the brightly lit corridor, pushed through a set of double doors emblazoned with large red letters that warned “Emergency Personnel Only,” and made his way to the busy hub of desks and monitors occupying the center of the room. Starfleet General’s Emergency Room was never a quiet place; tonight, it was a buzzing hive of activity.

Len grabbed the nearest empty chair and sank into it, ignoring the purposeful chaos around him. Several staff cast him curious glances, obviously puzzled by his civilian clothing, but he kept his head down, focusing on the chart Yang had left for him, and they returned to their work without bothering him.

Pressing his finger to the logon icon on the screen, he waited for the PADD to cycle through its security protocols, then began to read

**STARFLEET GENERAL HOSPITAL**

**MEDICAL RECORD**

**PATIENT** : James Tiberius Kirk

**DATE OF BIRTH** : 2233.04

**AGE** : 22 years

**CHIEF COMPLAINT** : Patient is one of multiple victims involved in a campus building collapse. Requesting discharge without treatment.

**HISTORY OF PRESENT ILLNESS** : 22 y o male arrived via air ambulance. He was conscious, alert and oriented x 3 upon arrival. Ambulance techs stated he refused a cervical collar or exam at the scene. A stasis bandage has been applied to the patient’s forehead for a reported “moderately severe head laceration”. No medications were administered at the scene. EMT states patient reported possible medication allergies.

**SURGICAL HISTORY** : Unknown

**MEDICAL HISTORY** : Unknown

**SOCIAL HISTORY** : Single. No emergency contact designated in Starfleet Academy records.

**FAMILY HISTORY** : Based on patient’s admission records, Father is deceased in the line of duty. Mother is currently on active duty aboard the USS Magellan.

**ALLERGIES** : None listed in Starfleet Academy records.

**MEDICATIONS** : None listed in Starfleet Academy records.

**REVIEW OF SYMPTOMS** : Patient refuses exam or bio-bed monitoring.

**PHYSICAL EXAM** : Patient refuses exam or bio-bed monitoring.

**GENERAL** : Difficult to assess. (see above). Patient appears wet, with hair and clothing littered with debris.

**EYES** : Unable to assess.

**ENT** : Unable to assess.

**HEAD AND NECK** : No visible swelling, redness or rash around throat. Face appears to have multiple bruises and scrapes. A stasis bandage is in place on the patient’s forehead. 

**LYMPH NODES** : Unable to assess.

**CARDIOVASCULAR** : Unable to assess.

**LUNGS** : Unable to assess.

**SKIN** : Patient appears pale. Patient appears to have multiple scrapes and contusions on his hands, and an apparent wound of unknown severity on his forehead.

**BREAST** : N/A

**PSYCH/SOCIAL** : Patient is uncooperative, refusing multiple requests for an exam. Uncommunicative.

**ABDOMEN** : Unable to assess.

**GENITO-URINARY** : Unable to assess.

**RECTAL** : Unable to assess.

**EXTREMITIES** : Unable to assess.

**MUSCULO-SKELETAL** : Suspect injuries due to patient’s stiff body movements. Patient is also favoring his left shoulder.

**NEUROLOGICAL** : Alert and oriented x 3. Cranial nerves appear to be grossly intact.

**DIAGNOSTIC TESTS** : None. 

**ASSESSMENT AND PLAN** : Patient continues to refuse medical exam despite repeated warnings of possible negative consequences. When informed he is required to allow exam and accept prescribed treatment as a Starfleet cadet, he requested Leonard H. McCoy, MD, as his personal physician. Dr. McCoy was notified at 1809 and is in route.

**PHYSICIAN ON DUTY** : Glen Yang, MD

Well.

Leonard pursed his lips, his irritation at being called out fading. He was puzzled. How the hell had Kirk managed to join Starfleet, an organization that prided itself on being a stickler for rules and processes, without divulging any useful medical data?

Intrigued, he rose and headed to Trauma Bay Six, dinner and the evening’s annoyances forgotten.

* * *

Gripping the PADD, Len stopped at the entry to the room. The trauma bays were set up to allow personnel to log in before entering, in order to facilitate record-keeping. Unless the patient was critical and a medical override warranted, it was worth the slight delay in initiating treatment caused by the log-in process.

He touched the keypad next to the door, placing his finger on the lighted red circle. It immediately flashed to green upon recognizing his fingerprint and brought up the familiar screen and voice prompt.

“State your name, identification number and position.” 

“Leonard H. McCoy. Medical ID 773691-MD. Now assuming primary care for patient James T. Kirk.”

“You are authorized to proceed, Dr. McCoy.”

The familiar routine triggered a mindset ingrained since med school and he strode confidently into the room.

“Well, don’t you look like something the cat dragged in,” he drawled, getting his first look at his recalcitrant patient.

“TGIF to you, too, Bones,” the kid responded, not even bothering to open his eyes.

James Tiberius Kirk slumped wearily in the chair intended for visitors, his head tipped back against the wall. His hair, dark with moisture – a mix of rain and blood apparently – had left a red smear on the pristine white paint.

Someone, probably one of the emergency personnel in the field, had gotten him to cooperate long enough to put a stasis bandage on his forehead. It covered him from hairline to eyebrows, the bandage partially obscuring his left eye. His uniform was saturated with water and God-knew-what else, so dark a red it looked nearly black, and it hung heavily on his frame.

“Why aren’t you on the bio-bed?” Leonard snapped.

He was going to have a serious conversation with young Dr. Yang. It was inexcusable to leave a patient in Jim’s condition alone in the room, crisis or not. Good God, the kid clearly had a head injury; what if he had lapsed into unconsciousness from undiagnosed complications?

His eyes still closed, Jim waved a self-deprecating hand over his torso. “I’m wet. And filthy. And really, really tired.”

_The kid flinched when he moved his shoulder._

“Just sign me out of here, Bones, and I’ll go home.”

“You’re joking, right?”

Apparently, his sarcastic tone succeeded where his earlier words had not. Jim’s lids lifted to half-mast, affording him a glimpse of dull blue eyes.

Despite Kirk’s nonchalant manner, he was clearly in pain.

“Okay, let me explain how this is going to work,” Leonard said in a low voice, a concession to the headache and other body miseries he could see. “You’re going to take your clothes off. Next, you’ll lie down on the bio-bed. We’ll deal with the necessary red tape and I’ll take a history while we run the scans. Then I’ll provide whatever treatment those scans and your answers to my questions indicate are needed. All of that will happen _before_ you go anywhere. Is that clear or do you have any questions?”

“Your bedside manner is for shit.”

“ _You_ asked for _me_ ,” Leonard reminded him.

“I’m blaming the blow to my head. Maybe I should just see the other guy after all.”

“Too late. He’s busy,” Leonard said. “You made me leave my warm, dry room, with my dinner prep still on the kitchen counter. The least you can do is cooperate.”

Kirk sighed heavily. “Alright, Bones,” he conceded. “Do your worst. It can’t possibly compare to what I’ve already been through, today.”

“Wise choice. Clothes first.”

“Everyone wants my body,” Jim groused, his attempt at humor ringing hollow, given his appearance. He got to his feet, using the arms of the chair for leverage. Once vertical, he swayed unsteadily, reaching out blindly for the wall.

Leonard hastily dumped the PADD on the nearest counter. “Whoa. Take it easy.” He gently guided Kirk to the bio-bed. “Lean on the bed for a minute. I’ll help you get your clothes off.”

“Best offer I’ve had in a week,” Kirk quipped but his face was white and his legs were trembling. Shivers wracked his frame.

Leonard reached to unfasten the man’s uniform jacket, shocked by the feel of the cold, saturated fabric.

_Shit, the kid’s probably hypothermic._

When the zipper on the sodden fabric refused to cooperate, Leonard cursed under his breath and grabbed a laser scalpel from the tray of instruments next to the bio-bed. “Hold still.” He quickly slit the uniform up both sides and carefully peeled off the wet halves before doing the same with the even-wetter pants, leaving Kirk in only his undershirt and briefs.

The young man began to shiver harder, giant goosebumps stippling his arms and legs.

“Almost done,” Leonard said, and squatted to deal with the kid’s boots.

They were a great deal easier to remove, having retained their integrity despite the conditions to which they’d recently been subjected. Jim’s damp socks followed in short order.

Len rose, cast a critical eye over Jim’s remaining clothing, and shook his head. “Your shirt and shorts need to go, too, I’m afraid. They’re too wet to leave on you. You’ll be warmer without them. Besides, I need to thoroughly look you over.” He smiled encouragement. “Just a little longer and you can lay back and rest and get warm.”

“Deal,” Jim breathed, his pallor even more pronounced.

Despite the assistance of the laser scalpel, it took longer to remove Kirk’s soaked t-shirt and briefs than his uniform jacket and pants. The wet material had molded itself to the Jim’s body, and Len had to proceed cautiously while moving the scalpel so close to the young man’s chilled skin, due to his pronounced shivering.

Finally, the last piece of cloth fell to the floor. “Okay, kid, let’s get you on the bio-bed,” he said.

“I hate these things,” Kirk muttered under his breath. “You can’t hide anything from them.”

Leonard raised an eyebrow, startled. “Considering you’re naked as a jaybird right now, I wouldn’t think there’s a lot left to conceal.” He gently maneuvered the young man onto the bed and helped him lie back, covering him with the sheet and blanket folded at the end of the bed.

The monitor sprang to life. And immediately began chirping with multiple alarms.

“What’s wrong?” Jim asked, his scraped and bloodstained fingers clenching on the blanket. He grimaced and relaxed his grip.

Leonard swiftly scanned the display. “Your blood pressure is low and your heartrate is elevated. Nothing significant, so try not to worry. Not surprising, really, given the circumstances. Basically, you’ve dumped a shitload of adrenaline into your system and now your body is paying the price.”

Leonard tapped on the control panel to heat the surface of the bio-bed fifteen degrees, then keyed in the commands to begin the standard set of body scans.

“Your body temp is low, too. Also not surprising, considering how long you sat around in wet clothes.” He really was going to have to give Yang a warning about ignoring safe patient care.

“I just need to go home and go to bed. I’ll be better in the morning.” The firm words issued from blue-tinged lips, significantly undermining their credibility.

“Still singing that song?”

“I’m tougher than I look, Bones. I’ve been through worse.”

Now _that_ was interesting, especially considering the lack of information in his medical record. “Really? Like what?”

Kirk started to shrug and stifled the movement, like he had with his hands a moment ago. “Can you just finish doing your doctor thing? I really want to get out of here. Hospitals give me the creeps.”

Leonard pushed all the tantalizing inferences in Jim Kirk’s words aside momentarily. There’d be plenty of time to dig further, once his patient was more comfortable.

“I increased the bed temperature, so you should feel warmer soon. While that’s happening, let’s get the formalities out of the way.” McCoy tapped on the PADD, bringing up the appropriate screen. “Is Dr. Yang correct? You want me to act as your Starfleet Doctor of Record?”

Kirk bit his lip. “Can’t you just… you know… be my doctor for tonight?”

“I can,” Leonard replied calmly. “But you’re going to need to designate someone, and soon.”

“Why? I told you I’ll be fine.” Kirk’s jaw was set.

“Yeah, so you keep sayin’. But here’s the deal. Starfleet is going to insist you have a designated physician. It’s no skin off my ass who you select. I can recommend several doctors who are quite competent in the Internal Medicine Department. But you won’t get an appointment with one of them right away, and you’re going to need someone to check you over and sign you off the limited duty status I’m going to place you on for at least the next forty-eight hours. And I’ve already seen you naked, if that matters to you. Plus, I’m here and ready to proceed.”

“Is limited duty really necessary? I’ll be—”

“—fine. I heard you the first time. And you probably will be. But,” he held up a cautioning hand as Kirk started to speak, “you don’t have M.D. after your name, so no one in Starfleet Administration is going to accept your opinion.” Leonard gave the man a curious look. “I’m surprised they haven’t been breathing down your neck from the day you arrived, demanding that you select someone, given the skeletal nature of your medical records. They did with me.”

“They have been. But I got Pike to order them to back off until the probationary period was over. I was too busy with challenge exams and classes to waste time on a visit to some doctor.”

Kirk made the word ‘doctor’ sound like a curse word. Leonard’s eyebrow canted upward. “Wow, you really _don’t_ like the medical profession, do you?”

A slight flush painted Kirk’s cheekbones. “Sorry, Bones. That was rude.”

“Apology accepted. So, what’s your decision?”

“Do I really need to be on limited duty?”

“If your scans don’t confirm a concussion, I’ll eat my tricorder. Concussion means limited duty for at least forty-eight hours. Unless you want me to just admit you for the next two days?”

“No, no way!” Jim said vehemently.

“All right. So….?”

Kirk sighed. “Fine,” he said, making it sound anything but. “Just hurry up, okay? I want to get it over and done with, so I can go back to my room and go to bed.”

Leonard’s eyebrow twitched again. “What do you think I’m doing right now, for crying out loud?”

Kirk winced at his raised voice.

“Are you grumpy like this all the time? Or just when you’re hungry?”

“I’m a trauma surgeon, not Miss Congeniality. You want someone like that, you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree.”

“Yeah, I can see – and hear – that.” Kirk gave him a measured look from beneath the bandage, his eyes tired. “But you can do it? Be my doctor?”

Leonard rolled his eyes and snorted. “In my sleep. I thought you were supposed to be smart?”

“I am. I just meant… Starfleet will allow you to be my doctor? Even though you’re a surgeon?”

“Yes, if I agree to your request, which I’m willing to do. Just this once.”

“Okay, Bones, show me where I sign.”

A few signatures, the entry of the proper identification codes, and Leonard McCoy found himself officially responsible for James T. Kirk’s future medical needs.

Years later, he would remember the moment and wonder what his life might have been like if he, or Jim, had made a different decision.

He laid the PADD aside and disinfected his hands beneath the sonic sterilizer. “This shouldn’t take long. Let me know if anything I do causes you any pain or discomfort.”

“I told you, I’m tough. Don’t worry.”

Leonard sighed. “It’s not a contest, you idiot. I’m gathering data on your injuries, not on your tolerance for pain.”

“Won’t the bio-bed scans tell you all that?”

“Just shut up and let me do things my way.”

Kirk sighed and closed his eyes, clearly exhausted. “Whatever you say, Bones.”

Leonard called up the scan results, displaying them on the bio-screen above Jim’s head for easier viewing. The body schematic on the bio-screen was programmed to pulse softly with light at each injury location. Jim’s schematic was lit up like a Christmas tree.

A concussion, which, based on Kirk’s symptoms, was a Grade 3. No skull fracture found.

Multiple contusions.

Multiple lacerations, all minor except for a deeper laceration on the forehead, 6.82 centimeters in length, through the dermal layers to the muscle beneath.

Both dermal and deep tissue regenerator treatments were going to be necessary, Leonard noted. He continued to absorb the data displayed on the bio-screen.

Jim’s real-time vital signs were displayed visually, with most of the indicators glowing green.

Green was good; green meant normal.

Yellow warning indicators equaled caution, signaling the need for close monitoring, with possible intervention required.

An orange indicator meant ‘get your ass in gear and do something _now_ ’ or there would be an inexorable downward slide toward a situation you _did not_ want to transpire.

Leonard thought the old Earth stories had it wrong.

In Leonard’s world, Death did not appear in black robes; he wore ones the color of blood.

If the warning indicators on a patient’s bio-screen went red, it meant Death had entered the room and was standing at the bedside, his scythe at the ready.

The Grim Reaper was a difficult adversary to defeat. As a trauma surgeon, Leonard knew that from bitter experience.

But he always willingly took up the fight. And, sometimes, red could be forced back to orange, or even yellow.

Fortunately, Jim Kirk was not even close to being in that kind of trouble. His injuries, while painful, were not, at the moment, life-threatening, and could be easily treated.

All the young man’s indicators were a steady green except for two warnings which were a pulsing yellow.

Jim’s pulse was 102, just barely outside normal upper parameters. Although, since he was seeing Jim for the first time under abnormal circumstances, he had no idea what the young man’s resting heartrate was normally. 102 could mean anything from a mild elevation of his normal pulse to something more significant.

And his body temperature was currently 94.2 degrees, likely the result of the sitting around in the chilly room in wet clothing. Even as he watched, however, it ticked up to two tenths of a degree. The heated bio-bed was doing its job.

It was time to take a closer look at Jim.


	3. Chapter Three

**CHAPTER THREE**

While most doctors Leonard knew relied solely on the data the bio-bed scans provided to diagnose and treat their patients, he had always appreciated the information he gained from actually touching his patient.

In his opinion, a proper exam was an illuminating conversation between his hands and the patient’s physical condition. A trace of heat or coolness, a flinch or a state of relaxation, the sense of ease or tension lying beneath his fingertips spoke volumes. A bio-bed was an indispensable tool. But he wanted the additional nuanced information he learned through his hands.

He began with Jim’s skull, examining it closely, ignoring the bandaged forehead for the moment. Leonard gently parted the damp, filthy hair, looking closely at the area highlighted on the scan. He palpated carefully on the edges of the large hematoma, eliciting a hiss from his patient.

“Painful?

“When you press on it like that, yeah, so stop.”

McCoy dropped his hands, frowning. “Do you know what caused it?”

“A chunk of concrete.”

“That would do it. Fortunately, there’s no skull fracture, but you’ve got a concussion and a pretty good lump to go along with it. Does it throb even when nothing is touching it?”

“Yeah, a little.”

Leonard reached into a cart drawer and removed an ice pack. Triggering it, he laid it gently on the nasty-looking lump. “This should help keep the swelling from increasing.”

“That’s cold,” Jim complained, and shivered.

“It’s only temporary. I’ll take it off when I start the regenerators on their treatment cycle.”

Using the tips of his fingers, Leonard checked the facial bones, pressing lightly around the circumference of the orbital sockets, then picked up an ophthalmoscope.

“Open your eyes. Look at the end of my nose.” A quick flick of the light. “Your pupils are normal, which is good news for you, despite the argument you lost with that piece of concrete. Now, follow my finger with your eyes, but don’t move your head. Good. You can close your eyes, now, if that’s more comfortable. How bad is the headache, on a scale of one to ten?”

Kirk hesitated. “A five?”

_Five, my ass. Not with the size of that goose-egg on his head._ “Are you experiencing any dizziness?”

“As long as I keep my eyes closed, I’m okay.”

Leonard pursed his lips. “Is that a yes or a no?”

Another hesitation. “A little, yes. When I move too fast.”

A chime sounded, and Leonard glanced up at the large bio-screen above Kirk’s bed. “Not surprising, given you have a moderately significant concussion. I’ll give you a dose of Gafronil, which will mitigate any permanent damage to the neural pathways.” He cocked his head, remembering the thinness of the chart he had reviewed. “You’re not allergic to it, are you?”

“I don’t know.”

“You told the EMTs you had some allergies.”

“I did? I don’t remember that. Old habits kicking in, I guess.”

Leonard narrowed his eyes. “Are you experiencing other memory losses?”

“No. It’s not like that. I don’t have any holes in my memory. I remember everything that happened.” The rate of Jim’s pulse increased on the monitor, and it began to chirp again, a warning triggered by the quick rise. “It was crazy inside the building after the blast. There was a lot of… noise.” Jim’s blue eyes grew distant. “People were screaming. Then sirens. I was busy when the first responders arrived, but they made me sit down, so they could put a bandage on my forehead. The blood kept getting in my eyes. I wasn’t paying a lot of attention to what they were saying…”

The kid’s slender, long-fingered hands were clenched, white-knuckled on the blanket. Given the state of his hands, it had to hurt to flex them that way.

“Understandable, given the circumstances,” Leonard reassured him softly. “Tell me more about your allergies.”

Jim’s tense grip relaxed a bit.

“I had some food allergies when I was a kid. But I’m okay now, Bones. I had treatment for them, so I don’t have to keep an epi pen on hand, anymore.”

Leonard lifted an eyebrow. “Sounds like they were severe.”

“Yeah, I guess. My mom kept a list on the chill-freeze when I was little, so no one accidentally killed me. But nothing has been a problem since I had the treatment. I’m supposed to be cautious when taking new medications or eating new foods, though, just to be on the safe side.”

“How come none of this is in your medical file?”

“I have no idea. Maybe Starfleet hasn’t had time to get the records. I, uh, wasn’t the usual kind of enlistment. Maybe Pike would know.”

“Commandant Pike?”

“Yeah.” Kirk heaved a deep sigh. “I should have just stayed in the bar. I wouldn’t have had to worry about buildings falling on me in Riverside.”

“Is that home?” McCoy asked, hoping the answer would give him another avenue to investigate in his search for relevant information. “In Riverside, where you boarded the shuttle?”

Silence.

Leonard redirected his attention to Jim’s face. Jim was staring off into the far distance. “That’s not usually a difficult question to answer.”

A shrug and, this time, a wince. “I lived there until I was twelve. It wasn’t really… my Mom was… she was away a lot.”

Home was apparently a touchy subject. But then his own pathway into enlisting with Starfleet, beginning with his cluster-fuck of a disintegrating marriage, was nothing to brag about.

He folded the covers back to Kirk’s waist, releasing a waft of warm air. Jim shivered as the room’s cooler air invaded the warm cocoon beneath his blankets.

“Sorry, kid. I’ll try and be quick.”

Leonard skated his fingers across Kirk’s shoulder, feeling an area of tightness and heat. “Computer, enhanced scan. Left upper chest torso, anteriorly and posterior views, with lateral perspective, as well.”

An acknowledging chime, then the projection came up on the screen.

“Good news. No broken bones or dislocation of your shoulder. There’s significant bruising and swelling, though. I’ll run a regenerator cycle on it, in a minute, which will decrease the inflammation and repair the traumatized muscle.”

The door opened behind him and a nurse entered the room, pushing a cart loaded with equipment.

“Good evening, Dr. McCoy,” she said cheerfully. “I didn’t know you were working tonight. I’ve got everything you ordered.”

“Thanks, Hannah. Everything under control out there? Dr. Yang seemed a little rattled, earlier.”

Hannah smiled, her dark eyes dancing. “He’s fine now that Dr. M’Benga has arrived.” She parked the cart at the foot of the bio-bed. “Anything else I can help you with?”

“Draw a chem panel and CBC with diff. I’m also going to need a urine specimen before Cadet Kirk leaves, but that can wait until I’ve treated his head lac.”

“Of course, doctor.”

Hannah bustled over to the counter and Jim shot him a dark look, stiffly pulling the covers back up beneath his chin.

“Blood and urine testing are a standard part of a complete physical, Jim,” Leonard said mildly.

“Haven’t I lost enough blood?”

“It’s routine and not that much, volume-wise. You’ll live.” He smiled. “Hannah’s very good. She isn’t going to hurt you.”

Jim rolled his eyes. “I’m not afraid, Bones.”

“Good to hear,” Leonard replied and waited, arms crossed, until Hannah finished taking the blood samples, and departed, before re-approaching the bio-bed.

“I need to take a look at your back. Let me help you lean forward.”

Kirk struggled awkwardly to raise himself up from the pillow, hampered by his sore shoulder and the bedding.

“Easy.” Leonard provided a boosting arm, steadying the man until he was sitting upright. “Dizzy?”

“A little.” Kirk’s response was breathy, and Leonard glanced at the bio-screen stats. His oxygen levels were good. But his pulse was rising again and his respiratory rate had increased.

Three yellow indicators, now.

Pain and exhaustion were the likely culprits, Leonard knew. Both would be remedied with medication and bedrest. He needed to finish up so Jim could relax while the regenerators did their job.

Leonard kept one arm braced against Kirk’s chest while he examined the long slope of muscle and the elegant line of his spine. A number of faint silvery scars marred the pale skin, almost invisible despite the bright overhead lights.

“Are you finished? I’m feeling a little queasy.”

Leonard shelved his curiosity for the moment. There would be time to investigate the cause of those scars when Kirk was feeling better. But it was an odd finding; the scars looked quite old.

“All done.”

Leonard helped Jim lie back, replacing the covers and tucking them around Jim’s chin before peeling the bedding up from the foot of the bio-bed in order to examine Jim’s lower extremities. He folded it neatly back to the tops of Jim’s thighs. Leonard could immediately see the left knee was scraped raw, crusted with dried blood and oozing serosanguinous fluid, exactly the area the scan had highlighted. “That looks nasty.”

“I fell when the stairs blew out. Landed on my knee and skidded a few feet.”

“You’re lucky you didn’t fracture your patella. The dermal regenerator will take care of it.” He slid his hands along the lean length of each leg, checking the bruised areas flagged on the scan and noting the firm musculature. Kirk appeared to be all lean, hard muscle and taut, sculpted planes. A body in that condition could hold its own in situations the average person faltered under. 

“I need to move the blanket and sheet to check your abdomen.”

Kirk reluctantly released his grip on the covers, and Leonard pushed them far enough aside to palpate the concave belly, while keeping a corner of the bedding over Jim’s genital area. “Take as deep breath as you can and blow it out through your mouth. Try to relax.”

“The air in here is like a meat locker,” Jim complained.

“Hmm,” Leonard said absently, concentrating on the body beneath his hands.

He could just feel the liver sliding away under the rib cage beneath the bands of muscle, more a suggestion than anything substantial, as was normal in a healthy adult. The other organs were unremarkable, nothing evident on palpation, and the pale skin of the abdomen was without bruising.

Even here, Kirk carried a surprising amount of muscle. There was a good reason he had looked lean, rather than bulky, in his boxy cadet uniform. He’d never examined a patient who was more fit. The man had no body fat to speak of.

He’d need to take a more in-depth nutritional history in the future, but for now it wasn’t a priority.

“Seriously?” Jim said, when he nudged the fold of bedding aside to examine his genitalia and rectal area. “Trust me, everything down there works just fine.”

“Glad to hear it. So, no problems with elimination or sexual performance?”

“Jesus, Bones,” Jim said, the faintest of blushes coloring his cheekbones. “Leave a man some privacy. Speaking of which, cover me up. I’m freezing.”

“Quit complaining. I set the bio-bed to ninety degrees. You’ll warm back up.” Leonard nodded, and pulled the bedding back into place. “Okay, Jim, everything looks remarkably normal, given what you’ve been through.”

“That’s great,” Jim huffed, his affect drained of the small burst of energy indignation had bestowed.

“It is. You were lucky to get away with just a concussion and a head lac, over and above the scrapes and bruises. I can take care of those without any trouble, hopefully.”

Jim looked discomfited. “What do you mean “hopefully”?

“I’m a little concerned about your allergy history. It could complicate things.”

Jim looked relieved. “Oh, I thought you were hinting at something serious.”

Leonard frowned. “Allergies _are_ serious. Only an idiot would think otherwise. That’s why I’m trying to find your childhood medical records.”

“Oh.”

“So, back to my earlier question. Where were you living during your early childhood years? During the time you would have been receiving the routine childhood immunizations?”

Jim hesitated. “In Iowa. In Riverside, I guess.”

“Do you remember your pediatrician’s name?”

“I don’t think I had one.” Kirk sighed. “There was a small urgent care in town, which I remember my Mom taking me to, a few times. I went to the Iowa University Hospital for my allergy care. That’s where the specialists performed the Danthers-Duseault therapy when I was five.”

McCoy had been tapping away on the PADD, entering his findings from the hands-on exam while they were still fresh, but that information immediately ensnared his full attention. “The modified or the full therapy?” he asked.

“The full.”

No wonder the kid wasn’t fond of hospitals. Or doctors.

The Danthers-Duseault procedure took weeks to complete, coming as close to gene manipulation as made no never-mind. The procedure modified the body’s immune responses by inserting engineered blood stem cells into the bone marrow, effectively wiping the memory of the original T-cells, thereby desensitizing the immune system and turning off the allergic response. It was only used in cases that were deemed to be at serious risk for anaphylactic shock and death.

“I’m assuming it was successful, since you’re here.”

“The doctors were happy and I stopped having to carry the epi-hypospray everywhere.” He grimaced. “But they warned me to be careful with ingesting large amounts of new foods at one sitting. Same with drugs.”

“Is that why you refused medication at the scene of the accident?”

“Probably. I don’t specifically remember saying anything about having allergies, but it’s a habit now to be cautious. Some techs are pretty aggressive with meds, so I might have. I understand they just want to stabilize and move quickly to the next victim but I’d rather hurt a little than have a bad reaction.”

Leonard mulled the implications of that statement for a moment.

“Do you remember what foods were on your original allergy list?”

“Peanuts, pineapple, shellfish, and papaya,” he recited in a lilting and, from the sing-song nature of the prompt recitation, obviously familiar refrain. “But I’m good now.” The kid’s lips quirked. “I had shrimp scampi in the cafeteria on Tuesday and I was fine.”

Nut allergies. He’d have to be careful with any medications that used chemical stabilizers or binders, since they were commonly nut-based. “No medications that you’re aware of?”

Kirk hesitated. “I was given an antibiotic for pneumonia once. It gave me hives. I itched for days. I think it was Vintallicillin. But I was pretty out of it at the time, so…” He brightened. “But the therapy fixed that allergy, too, so it’s no big deal.”

Leonard pursed his lips. Vintallicillin was a heavy hitter on the list of antibiotics. Jim must have been quite ill.

“Okay, I’ll make a note of that. It’s not an insurmountable problem if you are still sensitive to that particular antibiotic; there are plenty of alternatives, should you ever need them.” Leonard laid the PADD aside. “Okay, kid, time to fix that laceration.”

“I’m not a kid!”

“You are to me,” Leonard said, opening the medication drawer in the treatment cart. “All you cadets are kids. Rumor has it there’s even a fourteen-year-old math phenom in the Academy.”

“Chekov. Yeah, he’s in one of my classes.”

“Unbelievable,” Leonard said, shaking his head. “What are his parents thinking? Starfleet is no place to spend your childhood.”

“Maybe it’s better than his home situation. Not everyone gets a happy childhood, Bones. Especially when you’re a genius like Chekov.”

“Almost anything has to better than a military organization.”

“Maybe,” Jim conceded, but he didn’t sound convinced. He closed his eyes, looking weary, clearly abandoning the argument.

Leonard selected several vials, setting them in a short row, before snapping the first one into the hypospray. “This is something for pain,” he said. “Contonicin. It’s mild – I can’t give you anything too strong because of your concussion – but it will take the edge off your headache.” He gently pressed the hypospray against the side of Jim’s neck and triggered it.

Leonard cleared the empty medication cartridge and picked up the second vial. “This next one, Sominol, is a mild sedative.”

Jim’s eyes opened. “I’m not freaking out, Bones. I don’t need a sedative.”

Leonard ignored him and pressed the hypospray home over Jim’s protest. “It will help you relax and doze. You’ve got a couple of hours of regenerator therapy ahead and the less you move around, the better.”

He ejected the empty vial and reached for the third, aware of Jim’s gaze following the movement of his hands.

“This is a broad-spectrum antibiotic to prevent infections. Benntomisil.”

“Bones…”

“Don’t worry. I’m monitoring your response to the medications very carefully, Jim. And I have everything close to hand that I might need if you begin to experience a reaction.” He delivered the medication into Jim’s neck. “And this is the last one. The Gafronil I mentioned earlier. It will negate any neural damage caused by the blow to your head.” Leonard snapped the cartridge into the hypospray.

“’kay, Bones. I trust you.”

Leonard administered the medication, noting the slow softness of Jim’s speech and the loosening of tension in his face. The meds were doing their job and, he was relieved to note, without any undesirable side-affects.

The pulse and respiratory monitors turned green. Then, as if it didn’t want to be left behind, so did the body temperature monitor.

Satisfied, Leonard donned a pair of gloves and reached for the dermal repair kit with a smug smile.

His smile didn’t last long. Removing the pressure bandage from Jim’s forehead – a process that resulted in Jim muttering a faint “Ow” more than once – revealed one of the nastier head gashes he’d seen in his career. It was going to take some time and delicate work to close it without leaving a scar.

“This is definitely going to require more than one pass with the dermal regenerator, Jim, so get comfortable.”

With the pressure bandaging off, the wound began to bleed again. Working quickly, Leonard gently cleaned the tissues, looking for bits of foreign matter, mopping up the resulting trickles of blood before they reached Jim’s eyes.

“That hurts,” Jim mumbled, scrunching his forehead.

The wound gaped, causing blood to flow faster.

“Stop doing that,” Leonard ordered, pressing a clean gauze pad firmly to the gash. “You’re making the bleeding worse.”

“You’re bossy,” Jim muttered, but his tired face relaxed.

“Good. Now hold still while I inject the anesthetic. It’s going to sting some.”

It was slow work to follow the perimeter of the wound, stopping every half centimeter or so to inject the numbing agent through the micro-head of the hypospray, but finally it was done. 

Jim had hissed at the first injection but was quiet thereafter.

Leonard gently touched the edge of the wound. “Does that hurt?”

“No.”

He ran his gloved finger along the open seam of flesh. “What about that?”

“Not really. Feels weird… like it should hurt. But it doesn’t.” Jim’s eyelids lifted to half-mast. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing you need to worry about,” Leonard soothed.

“’kay, Bones.” Jim’s lids drifted closed. “Knew you were awesome…”

Smiling, Leonard shook his head and picked up the suturing device.


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

It had taken longer than Leonard had thought it would to achieve the neat line that marched across Jim’s pale forehead. The extra work he’d done, post-residency, in Plastics was coming in handy, making all those extra hours and shifts well worth the investment of time and effort. Once the dermal regenerators finished, there would be no scar to mar Jim Kirk’s handsome face.

Leonard got a deep sense of satisfaction out of knowing that.

He’d positioned one of the latest-model dermal regenerators – only the best for Starfleet – over Jim’s forehead, before pulling the body-sized regenerator down and into position. He added some programming for deeper therapy to the left shoulder area, as well as the skull hematoma, prior to initiating the treatment sequences. There was nothing left to do then but allow the machines to do their work.

With the regenerators hummed away in the background, Leonard settled into a chair, with his PADD balanced against the thigh of his crossed leg. He wanted to work on the puzzle that was Jim Kirk’s past medical history.

An inquiry to the Federation database resulted in a list of three urgent-care facilities in or near Riverside, Iowa. Further scrutiny eliminated two: one was no longer in operation and the other was a facility run by Starfleet for the shipyard workers. That left…

He clicked the link for Riverside Urgent Care, found the ‘professionals only’ entry port, and entered his Starfleet Medical identification number, then Jim’s name and date of birth.

The seconds slowly crawled by. Leonard was just starting to think it was all going to be futile, when the computer chimed and loaded several pages.

“Bingo,” he murmured.

The pages were scanned copies of actual paper forms, and they spanned a little over five years of time, from Jim’s first visit as a two-week-old infant, to a last notation when Jim was five.

Leonard scrolled past the routine demographics to the meat of the information and began to read, stopping only to enter the dates of the standard infant and childhood vaccinations administered by the clinic into Jim’s Starfleet medical record.

Leonard began to read and was startled to learn that Jim had been born two and half months premature and had had some of the usual problems of a premature infant – respiratory problems and a few bronchial infections mainly, one severe enough to require emergency transport to another facility, the Iowa University Hospital in Des Moines, at age 3. There was no mention of follow-up care to that event in the clinic records.

All in all, Leonard thought as he continued to read, Kirk had been incredibly lucky to have avoided the more serious syndromes associated with prematurity, developing into a sturdy – if small for his age – boy, based on the height and weight values noted at each of the visits.

He clicked to the next scanned image.

A visit for a cut finger that required six stitches, when he was two. Four visits for allergic reactions – one for a severe reaction to peanut butter at eighteen months, requiring an epinephrine bolus and drip. (A note appended to the progress notes detailing the allergic response treatment indicated that the mother had been given an epi-hypospray and instructions on how to use it.) A second visit a month after that for shrimp, this time requiring diphenhydramine only, as the mother had given the boy an epinephrine injection prior to arriving at the clinic.

Then two more emergency visits in quick succession at 25 and 26 months, for similar episodes, this time a reaction to pineapple, followed by one for papaya. All had been handled in the same manner: epinephrine injections at home, followed by observation and diphenhydramine at the clinic.

The last of the scanned pages was a copy of a referral to the Iowa University Hospital for an allergy work-up by the specialists there.

Leonard pursed his lips, trying to read between the lines.

There’d not been a lot of continuity in the medical care provided in Jim’s earliest years; every entry had a different doctor name signing off on the visits. No indication of how Jim’s mother was dealing, or not, with the needs of a premature infant. No developmental milestones noted. Nothing recorded past age five.

Based on the care documented in these copied records, Jim could have been living on the Iowa prairie three hundred years ago.

Leonard moved the copies into a file and attached it to Jim’s current medical record.

Now, to Des Moines…

He hit the motherlode there, compared to Riverside’s scant handful of documents.

The Iowa University Hospital was a first-class facility with modern recordkeeping. The hospital was a Level 3 Trauma Center and a regional center for specialty care of all kinds. Based on the little he’d seen on his drunken enlistment shuttle ride and the overnight stop at the shipyard, Leonard suspected that the hospital was the mothership for countless small hospitals and clinics in the sparsely populated state. They made it easy for any doctors referring to them to find all the information regarding their patients.

Leonard’s Starfleet Medical ID apparently doubled as a magic wand.

He surfed the multitude of records, trying to get a feel for what he had netted. There was a huge amount of documentation resulting from Jim’s hospitalization for the Danthers-Duseault procedure. He was going to have to read that in detail.

Then he happened upon the name of the allergy Attending again, further on in the records, attached to an emergency room visit. Wondering if Jim had experienced some post-therapy issues significant enough to require him to travel to Des Moines, Leonard dug deeper.

And felt his gut clench.

Broken jaw. Severe facial contusions. Broken collarbone. Broken arm. Broken ribs. Bruised kidneys.

Jim had been twelve. Twelve fucking years old, and he’d been beaten badly enough to require hospitalization for nineteen days. The allergy Attending, apparently furious that someone had tried to jeopardize some of his best work, had pressed charges against Jim’s assailant, with the assistance of the hospital’s attorney.

Leonard tapped furiously, routing himself through Jim’s records to the emergency room visit that connected to the allergist’s note. He finally found it by using the date, 2245, having added twelve years to Jim’s birth year, and he began to skim…

_…twelve-year-old male with numerous significant traumatic injuries… arrived via air ambulance… unresponsive and in respiratory distress… Oral surgeon performed temporary stabilization of mandibular fracture prior to intubation… cardiac arrest at 1522…normal sinus rhythm re-acquired at 1534… patient taken to OR at 1541…_

Leonard looked across the room to where Jim was sleeping peacefully. His body was nude, except for the towel across his groin, a concession to modesty, so that the regenerators could work unimpeded.

_“I’m tougher than I look, Bones. I’ve been through worse.”_

Today’s body scrapes and bruises were already healed. The long-fingered, elegant hands were lax, resting lightly at Jim’s sides, their skin once again smooth and unblemished. The regenerator was nearly finished, making the last of its repeated passes over Jim’s skull and shoulder.

_“I told you, I’m tough. Don’t worry.”_

Fat chance of that.

The regenerators chimed, signaling the completion of treatment.

Sighing, Leonard stood up. He needed to prepare Jim’s discharge instructions and have Hannah contact his roommate. Jim would need replacement clothing before he could leave the ER, as well as a ride back to his room. He’d also need to be under close observation for the next twenty-four hours.

Clutching the PADD which, with its newly discovered information, felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds, he slipped quietly out of the room.

* * *

“Dr. McCoy? I’ve been trying to set up your patient’s discharge but I’ve run into… an unexpected snag.”

Leonard made a final entry to Jim’s discharge orders and spun on his chair to face Hannah. The expression on her face matched the frustration in her voice.

“What’s the problem, Hannah? Couldn’t you reach his roommate?”

Hannah grimaced. “Oh, I reached him. After four attempts. I have him holding onscreen right now. I think you should talk with him, sir. He’s refusing to cooperate with me,” she said.

“Transfer the call to my screen,” Leonard said. “I’ll set him straight.”

“Thanks, Dr. McCoy.”

The communication screen in front of him flickered to life. “Dr. McCoy from Starfleet Medical here—

“Finally! I’ve been holding forever! And it’s gonna be my turn soon!”

Leonard blinked. The flushed cadet on screen pumped his fist in the air as a raucous shout sounded in the background.

“Way to go, Maris! But I’m still gonna kick your ass!”

Even louder jeers sounded in response.

“Who are you and what the hell is going on there, cadet?” he barked.

His authoritative tone apparently made an impression because the cadet reflexively snapped to attention.

“Cadet Robert Lund, sir. We – my roommates and I – are playing Cosmic Forces. It’s an all-night marathon. To celebrate the end of probationary period.”

Some of the background noise decreased, apparently in response to Lund’s more respectful tone.

Leonard rubbed his forehead, tamping down his annoyance. “Cadet Lund, I understand you’re Jim Kirk’s roommate?”

“One of them, sir.”

_One of them?_

“How many of you are there?”

“Six, sir. Kirk, myself, Maris, Kissen, Antran and P’lith.”

“There are six of you living in that room?” McCoy asked, incredulously.

“Yes, sir.”

Unbelievable. His grandmother would have said there wasn’t enough space in the small room to swing a cat without getting hair in your mouth but, from what he could see of the room on his viewscreen, the cadet was telling the truth. Raised platform beds were arranged along three of the walls, with a small desk fitted beneath each of them. The two beds at the far end were mostly obscured by a large holo-screen, obviously a temporary addition. The screen rested on two of the desks, which had been pulled out from beneath the bunks and pushed together to form a table, with a desk chair centered in front of it.

The chair was currently occupied by a dark-haired cadet who, judging from his body English, was barely managing to stay on the chair seat as he manipulated the holo-controller. Two cadets sprawled on the floor next to the chair, and McCoy could see the feet of another swinging from his perch on one of the bunks. Loud explosions, and the constant whine of weapons powering up, were punctuated by insults from the onlookers concerning his energetic performance.

Even if there’d been no video marathon in progress, the room was a poor choice of places for Kirk to rest and recover.

“Cadet Kirk was injured in the engineering lab explosion earlier today.”

Lund peered at him warily. “Yeah, we heard.”

“Fortunately, he wasn’t seriously injured, but – “

“—Kirk is a ninja,” Lund said, interrupting him with a knowing smirk. “I think he was born under a lucky star or something. I mean, he survived the _Kelvin_ disaster, right? So it’s no big surprise he walked away today with only scratches.”

“I’m afraid whoever told you that had his head up his ass.”

Lund blinked. “Pardon, sir?”

“The injuries he sustained earlier today will require rest and close observation for the next 24 hours, and limited activities for an extended period of time after that. Someone will need to bring his meals to him tomorrow, make sure he stays hydrated, monitor him when he showers, and keep him quiet.” Leonard gave the boy a stern look. “A video game marathon is definitely contra-indicated.”

“Can’t you just keep him there, in the hospital, sir?” Lund pleaded. “Kirk’s pretty private. He won’t want us in his personal space. We’re not even allowed to touch his bunk or his desk.”

“This is a hospital, not a hotel, Cadet.”

“Yes, sir. I know, sir. But I— we—” The cadet took a deep breath. “Sir, none of us have any medical training. Our basic first aid course isn’t until next semester.”

“For crying out loud, all you have to do is help him out for a few days!”

Lund looked desperately over his shoulder, as if for a rescue that wasn’t coming. “I… I just can’t, sir. I’ve got a class to re-take tomorrow, one I don’t dare miss. P’lith and Kissen have family in the City and they’re going home in the morning. They won’t be back until Sunday evening. And Maris and Antran have commitments, too. It’s why we’re playing now, instead of later this weekend. Tonight was the only time we all had free.”

McCoy could see he was in a losing battle. And did he really want Kirk dependent on this immature bunch of young men?

“Very well, Cadet. I’ll make other arrangements for Kirk’s care. But I’m going to be sure he knows how unwilling all of you were to step up to the plate when needed.”

Lund swallowed hard. “Understood, sir. Tell Kirk… tell him we send our best wishes for a speedy recovery.”

McCoy snorted and terminated the call.

“What a bunch of pinheads,” Hannah said, her tone derisive. “I feel sorry for Kirk. He has to live with them.” Having remained at the nearby workstation after transferring the call to McCoy, she had seen and overheard everything. “Should I call Admitting for a bed?”

_Hospitals give me the creeps._

Kirk’s weary voice echoed in his memory and McCoy hesitated, suddenly reluctant to accept the easy solution being offered. He was probably going to regret this a dozen times over, but…

“No. I’m gonna take him home with me. He’ll rest better there.”

Hannah regarded him for a long moment, her dark gaze curious, and McCoy knew, without her having to say it, that she was puzzled by his out-of-character decision. But she didn’t question him, saying instead, “Obviously, I won’t need to review the discharge orders with you, which, frankly, is a relief. Even at the best of times, cadets don’t always follow through well with our instructions. So, is there anything I _can_ do to help you?”

“Yeah, you can find two pairs of scrubs in Kirk’s size. He’s going to need one to wear out of here, since his uniform is toast. And one to change into after he showers the first time. Some slippers, too.”

“On it,” she said, and strode off.

McCoy logged back into Kirk’s emergency room visit record and revised his earlier emergency uniform replacement requisition, adding a set of sweats, two sets of t-shirts and undershorts, and two pair of socks, indicating that it should all be delivered to his address rather than Kirk’s dorm room. He appended an approval to bill his personal account if the quartermaster balked at the additional items, logged out of the hospital system and immediately back into the admin site for medical housing. With a few taps, he navigated to the grocery service section, and began to make selections.

Hannah returned just as he was finishing his grocery order. “Got ‘em,” she said unnecessarily, a short stack of dark green scrubs tucked in one arm and a pair of disposable slippers dangling from the opposite hand. “But I hope you’re not going far. None of this will keep him warm or dry for long in tonight’s weather. It’s still raining like crazy outside.”

McCoy tapped the ‘Submit Order’ key, logged out of the system, and got to his feet. “My quarters are in Fleming Hall. We’ll be using the transporter to get there, so the weather won’t be an issue.”

Hannah looked relieved. “These will be fine then. Would you like some help getting him dressed?”

“I think I can probably manage.” He nodded at the clothing. “Drop those off in Kirk’s room, would you, please? Oh, and grab a separate bag for his wet boots. I’m just going to grab an emergency med kit to take with me, then I’ll be along.”

“Of course,” Hannah said. “Last time I checked, the monitor showed he was sleeping, so I’ll try not to wake him.”

“Oh, so you’re going to let me be the one to poke the sleeping bear with the giant headache?”

“Doctor’s privileges,” she confirmed with a grin and hurried off.


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

“How much farther?” Kirk asked, his voice breathy.

McCoy shot him a quick glance. “Last door on the right,” he said, not liking the kid’s color. He shifted the plastic bags containing the spare set of scrubs and Kirk’s boots to his left hand, the hand already holding the med kit, and used his now-free right hand to take a firm grip on the waistband of Kirk’s scrubs. “Put your left arm across my shoulder,” he directed, “and lean on me.”

He didn’t get any argument. Pausing just long enough to let Kirk fumble his arm into place, McCoy used his grasp on Kirk’s scrub pants to hitch the young man into closer contact with his own body.

Immediately, he could feel the fine tremors of fatigue that wracked the cadet’s hard frame.

“Just a few more steps,” he coaxed.

“I need… to sit… down, Bones.”

McCoy looked down the deserted hallway and wanted to curse. “We’re almost there.”

By the time they reached his door, Kirk was ashen and visibly trembling. McCoy swiftly tapped in his door code and practically dragged the kid inside, hurriedly maneuvering him into the nearest armchair.

“Relax, kid. Take some deep breaths.” Dumping the med case on the floor, he knelt down, opened it, and removed the medical tricorder. A quick scan reassured him that Kirk was experiencing nothing more serious than profound exhaustion, not complications from his concussion. His body had been depleted by the regenerators and his blood sugar was low. Too low.

“When’s the last time you had something to eat?” he growled, replacing the tricorder and reaching for a hypospray. Praise Jesus, he had taken the time to stock the kit with a full range of medication before leaving the ER.

Kirk gave him a blank look.

“Lunch? Breakfast?” he asked, loading the carpule.

“I think I had an apple for breakfast on the way to class…“

Christ. No wonder the kid’s blood sugar level was tanking.

“You have food issues?” he queried, pressing the hypospray to Kirk’s neck and triggering it. The concentrated dose of dextrose would help but it was a short-term solution.

“What? No! I have classes straight through on Fridays, so there’s no time to hit the mess hall until dinnertime.”

The dazed look was clearing from the kid’s blue eyes.

Maybe Kirk believed what he was saying. Maybe he was even telling the truth. But McCoy remembered the leanness of the body he had examined just a short time ago.

“I’m feeling better, Bones. Less shaky. Whatever you injected me with is working. Thanks.”

“Dextrose,” McCoy supplied, “commonly known as sugar.” He pushed the jumble of bags aside, closed the med kit, and got to his feet. “But it’s only a temporary fix. You need to eat in order to replenish what the regenerators took to do their job.”

Kirk nodded, his face drawn. “I will, I promise. But, right now, all I want to do is sleep.” His eyelids drooped. “And right here is fine, ‘cause it feels like Earth’s gravity just increased.”

“You need to be in bed. And, yeah, I’ll get you there in a minute.” He prodded the kid’s shoulder with insistent fingers, trying to keep him awake and alert without aggravating his headache. “Don’t fall asleep. I’ll be right back.”

“Sure, Bones,” Kirk said, yawning.

McCoy figured he had only a few minutes with which to work before Jim used up the brief spurt of energy provided by the dextrose injection. He strode into the small kitchen, giving his now sorry-looking dinner ingredients a brief, regretful glance, intent on reaching the replicator. Wasting no time, he keyed in the request, making one minor change to the recipe and verifying his medical ID when requested. In moments, a chilled glass stood waiting.

Carrying it over to Kirk, he poked the kid’s shoulder again, forcing the heavy eyelids to rise. “Here,” he said, offering the glass. “Drink this while I go get the bed ready.”

Kirk gave the drink a dubious look. “Is that supposed to be a chocolate milkshake, Bones? If it is, your replicator needs some serious reprogramming. Which I’d be happy to do as a thank you, by the way.”

“It’s a balanced, dense-calorie, chocolate-flavored protein smoothie. With added electrolytes and minerals.”

Kirk shook his head. “That’s going to taste like shit. I’ll pass, Bones. No offense.”

“No, you won’t,” McCoy countered firmly. “Your body’s reserves have been seriously depleted by the regeneration therapy. That profound fatigue you’re feeling? It’s from the regen units taking what they needed for the repairs from healthy muscle, bone and tissue. And you didn’t help the aftereffects any by not eating today. You’re running a real metabolic deficit, kid, and you don’t get to sleep until you get that drink onboard.”

Kirk looked less than thrilled by the prospect but— marks for him— he didn’t try to argue. Sighing, he accepted the tumbler and took a tentative sip. Making a face, he swallowed. “This is completely awful.” He eyed the liquid. “How much?”

“All of it.”

“Sadist.”

“Shut up and keep drinking. I’ll be back in a minute and I want to see some good progress by the time I return.”

His dorm suite wasn’t huge— nothing like the condo he’d shared with Jocelyn in Atlanta— so it didn’t take him long to walk to the bedroom. He turned back the covers on the neatly made bed, on the side he didn’t sleep on, and then paused, wondering if he should protect the sheets with a layer of towels.

Hannah had removed the worst of the dried blood and dust while Jim was in the ER. Although he was less than squeaky clean, there was no way was he letting Kirk anywhere near the shower until he was steadier on his feet. The kid was dressed in clean scrubs which made perfectly acceptable pajamas, as he knew from experience, and he normally changed the bedding every Saturday anyway. McCoy shrugged. Whatever crap Jim shed while sleeping tonight would get handled tomorrow morning with a change of bed linens. For now, hydration and rest were the top priorities.

McCoy laid out a change of clothes for himself— no sense in accidentally waking the kid up in the morning by scrounging for clean clothing to wear after his own shower — then headed back to the living area.

He was relieved to see that the young man was not only still awake but three quarters of the way done with the supplement drink. Drawing closer, he could also see Kirk’s incipient exhaustion.

“You look plum tuckered out. Finish up and I’ll help you to bed.”

Kirk scowled but obediently tipped the glass up and took three large gulps, emptying the glass and shuddering.

“I wouldn’t make my worst enemy drink that, Bones. It’s beyond nasty.”

“Boohoo. In four hours, you’ll need to drink another of those.”

Kirk looked appalled. “You’re joking.”

“Not even close.” McCoy crossed his arms and adopted a stern stance. “And when I do your neuro checks, I’ll expect you to drink a glass of water before you go back to sleep. Now, do you need to hit the head?”

“Not right now. I’d like a shower, though.”

“In the morning.”

“But I can’t go to bed dirty,” Kirk protested. “At least, not in someone else’s bed. It’s not polite, Bones.”

“I’ll live and so will you.” He uncrossed his arms. “I just hope you don’t snore.”

“We’re sharing a bed?” Kirk gave a half-hearted waggle of his eyebrows but the effect was spoiled by the shadows under his eyes.

“Get your mind out of the gutter, cadet. There’s only one bed in this place but it’s a queen, so I refuse to sleep on that lumpy sofa when there’s plenty of room for both of us. Besides, it will make the every-two-hours neuro check a lot less cumbersome.”

“They gave you a queen bed?” Kirk asked, his tone envious.

“Standard issue for this type of room, I’m told.”

“You’re lucky, Bones. The bunk I have is so narrow that I nearly fall off it every time I roll over.”

Kirk’s light-hearted gripe only reinforced Leonard’s belief that bringing the kid here had been the right call. But all he said was, “Well, don’t get too used to it because this arrangement is only temporary. Now, are you through jawing?”

“For now.”

“Good. Then let’s go. It’s past time you got some rest.” Bending, he assisted Kirk out of the chair and, keeping the cadet in a steady grip, guided him to the waiting bed. Taking care not to jar the kid’s head, he slowly lowered Kirk to sit on the mattress before assisting him to lie back.

Once horizontal, the kid sighed and relaxed into the soft pillow, his lids sinking.

McCoy made a quick trip back to the living room for the med kit. Returning to the softly lit bedroom, he opened it and placed it on top of the chest of drawers, where it would be handy if he urgently needed it. Removing the tricorder, he walked back to the bedside.

It didn’t take long to run the scan and confirm that all but one of the kid’s medical parameters were back within normal limits. Kirk’s pain level was noticeably elevated, though, from the concussion headache.

The kid hadn’t complained about it once.

Shaking his head, McCoy crossed back to the desk, loaded the hypospray with a non-narcotic pain suppressant and returned. He pressed the instrument gently against the smooth column of Kirk’s neck and triggered it.

Jim’s eyelids rose to half-mast. “Wha’s that?” he asked sleepily.

“A mild pain suppressant. For your headache.”

“It’s na’ that bad, Bones,” he slurred, ‘but thanks…”

McCoy raised an eyebrow. The average patient would have long since been begging for pain relief.

First, the possible food issue. Now this.

Apparently, the kid was going to be far from average in most things.

He hoped that becoming Kirk’s physician of record wasn’t taking him in over his head.

But then, he’d always liked swimming in deep waters the best.

* * *

2300 came quickly.

Yawning, McCoy reached over and grabbed his loudly vibrating comm unit. He silenced the alarm, then took a moment to reset it for 0100. Sleep would be coming in two-hour intervals tonight, but a disjointed night was nothing new in his career. During his residency training, he would have considered such a sleep schedule a coveted luxury.

“Lights, 20 percent,” he ordered, swinging his legs out of bed. Stifling another yawn, he rounded the bed, casting a quick glance at his bedmate. Even in the low light, McCoy could see that Kirk was curled on his side, deeply asleep. Picking up the tricorder scanner from the bedside table, he shook the cadet’s shoulder.

The young man stirred. “Go ‘way. Sleepin’...”

McCoy gave the hunched shoulder another firm shake. “Kirk? Rise and shine, kid,” he said firmly.

Kirk bleared up at him sleepily.

“Time to wake up,” McCoy repeated. “I need to check your pupillary responses.”

This time, it was Kirk who yawned. “Okay, Bones,” he said with patient resignation, “but couldn’t you just use your scanner, since it’s already in your hand? I feel like I just closed my eyes. It’s important to get a good night’s rest when you’re recovering. Everybody says so.”

“Do they now? Who knew?” McCoy asked, his drawl rich with sarcasm. “But since I’m the one with the medical degree, I’m telling you that you need to sit up and let me look in your eyes and ask you a few questions. Just to be sure that you aren’t bleeding into that superior brain of yours, and all.”

“How frequently does that happen?” Kirk asked, curiously.

“Not often, but in cases like yours, it pays to be cautious.”

McCoy sat down on the edge of the bed and waited until the young man had pushed himself upright before running the scanner over Kirk’s head and neck. The readings were about what he’d expected: slight edema in the brain tissue beneath the former contusion site and moderate pain levels from the persistent headache. Kirk would be due for another dose of pain medication at the 0100 check and McCoy made a mental note to prepare the hypospray before he went back to bed. Returning the scanner to the bedside table, he picked up a penlight and clicked it on, the narrow beam of light bright in the dimness of the room.

“Keep your eyes open and look at the end of my nose,” McCoy requested, leaning forward. He studied Kirk’s pupils in the low light, carefully checking whether they appeared equal in size and shape. Roughly twenty percent of the population was normally abnormal, with unequal pupillary size, but McCoy could see Kirk wasn’t one of them. Next, he brought the beam of light in from the right side of the cadet’s head, then the left, shining it directly into the blue eyes, monitoring the pupillary constriction response to the bright light, then rechecking to see if the pupils returned to the same size bilaterally.

Kirk winced against the prolonged exposure to the brightness.

“Sorry,” McCoy said. “I know that aggravates your headache but subtle changes in pupillary reaction often precede any problems the tricorder picks up on.” He straightened and turned off the penlight, placing it next to the scanner. “What’s your name?”

“My name?” Kirk echoed. “Do you have a problem remembering things, Bones?”

“No, smart-ass. I’m making sure you didn’t make Swiss cheese out of your memory.”

“Oh. Do you want my Starfleet serial number, too?”

“Maybe next time. C’mon, kid, just state your name for me.”

“James Tiberius Kirk.”

“That’s a mouthful.”

“Like yours is any better? Like I said before, Leonard Horatio McCoy sounds stuffy.”

“It’s patrician, according to my grandmother. And how the hell do you know my full name?”

Kirk shrugged. “Does it matter? Bones sounds much more adventurous, trust me.”

McCoy snorted. “I don’t need some crazy-assed nickname. I’m the most cautious man you’re ever going to meet.” He reached over and picked up the tall glass of water he’d prepared before turning in earlier. “Start drinking, while you tell me the date.”

Kirk took a swallow of water. “That’s easy. October 12th.”

“What year is it?”

That earned him an exasperated look. “2055. I can give it to you as a Stardate if you prefer.”

“Not necessary,” McCoy assured him, his tone dry. “So, next question. Where are you?”

Kirk hesitated. “Specifically or in general?”

Now _that_ was interesting. Although Kirk _had_ been pretty exhausted by the time they reached his apartment after leaving the ER.

“Let’s start with what you think you know.”

“I’m in your dorm room,” Kirk said promptly.

“Which is where?”

Kirk took several long swallows of water before answering. _Stalling for time or thinking?_ McCoy wondered, but remained silent.

“Bondar Hall. That’s where Starfleet houses almost all of their cadet physicians and residents. And it’s the closest residential dormitory to Starfleet General, although that’s not saying much, since the hospital is still a fair hike from main campus.” The kid gave him a speculative look as he swallowed more water. “All that walking must help keep you in shape though.”

“Are you kidding? No trauma surgeon worth a diddle-damn would rely solely on walking to stay in shape. Not if they want to be prepared for long hours on their feet during a crisis.” McCoy grimaced. “Don’t get me started on what I think about Starfleet’s precious obstacle course, however, as a proper means of determining conditioning.”

“It’s not that bad, Bones. Running for your life through real terrain can be far more challenging. The obstacle course is good training for most cadets.”

“I beg to differ, but now’s not the time to hold a debate. Last question. What’s my room number?”

Silence. Then, finally, “Honestly, I’m not sure, Bones. Like I said in the mess hall, I was planning on looking you up this weekend, but I hadn’t gotten around to it before the explosion occurred.” Kirk sighed. “But you can tell me now and I won’t forget, I promise. I’ve got a pretty good memory.”

“Fair enough,” McCoy said, wondering how many of the kid’s earlier responses had been astute deductions. “My room number is 4142. We’ll see if you can remember that in two hours.”

Kirk finished off the water with a final swallow, and handed McCoy the empty glass. “Thanks, Bones.”

“You need to urinate before I order the lights off?”

“Maybe next time,” Kirk said, smothering a yawn. “I just want to go back to sleep.” Suiting his words to actions, he carefully maneuvered himself flat again, gingerly nestling his head against his pillow, and with a deep sigh, closed his eyes.

McCoy stood watching him while he digested all he’d learned. Kirk needed to drink more, for a start. The kid’s headache was still thumping away, too. That much was obvious, based both on the scan results and his wincing reaction to having light shined into his eyes. Which was too bad because McCoy was going to have to do it again at 0100.

Sighing, he turned away from the bedside, empty glass in hand. He needed to refill it and prepare the hypospray before he reclaimed his own interrupted slumbers. It was going to be a long night, one short on sleep for both of them.

But, unlike the kid, at least he didn’t have a pounding headache to endure.


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

As McCoy had predicted, it was a rough night for both of them. He took a long swallow of coffee as he sat thinking back over the hours while waiting for the medical supplies he’d ordered to arrive.

The neuro check at 0100 had gone fairly smoothly. Kirk had, not surprisingly, reacted irritably to being awakened again so soon after falling back to sleep. And, while irritation was a normal response under such circumstances, it was also a well-known symptom of brain edema or intracranial bleeding. Kirk had been less than thrilled about the more in-depth scan McCoy had subjected him to, in order to rule out both possibilities. He’d downed the required glass of water in three large gulps and had been pretty terse answering the standard questions, proving— testily— that he was oriented x 3. But McCoy had let the less than gracious tone of the cadet’s responses slide right off his back. He wasn’t sure he’d personally have reacted half as well as Kirk had, all things considered. So he’d gotten Jim re-settled with a minimum of fuss, administered the hypo of analgesic, and gone back to back after updating his comm alarm.

Only to be awakened at 0240 by a sharp cry from Kirk.

Instantly awake, he had ordered the lights on and jumped out of bed.

_The kid was writhing silently on the bed, white-faced and sweating, as he clutched his right calf._

_McCoy grabbed the scanner but he was already sure that it would confirm his initial impression of a cramp in the_ _gastrocnemius_ _muscle of the leg. Or, in layman’s terms, a calf cramp. From the way Kirk was reacting, this was a vicious one._

_“Let me,” he ordered. Brushing Kirk’s hands aside, he began to firmly massage the rock-hard, knotted muscle. Kirk shoved his fist against his mouth in an attempt to stifle the guttural cries of pain escaping from his throat._

_After a long minute, McCoy cursed under his breath, giving it up for a lost cause. “Sorry, kid. This is gonna require a hypo.”_

_He quickly located the carpule of muscle relaxant in the med kit. Loading it, McCoy deftly trigged the hypospray against the taut skin of Kirk’s neck, then laid it aside and resumed massaging the corded muscle. Soon, the twin assault of the medication and the pressure of his fingers began to have results. McCoy could feel the muscle gradually soften, then finally relax. He gave a last, stroking sweep of the muscle from knee to ankle, and removed his hands._

_“Better?”_

_Kirk took a shuddering breath and nodded. “Sorry, Bones,” he murmured from behind the arm he was holding over his eyes._

_“Nothing to apologize for, kid,” McCoy said. His gaze narrowed on Kirk, and he reached up and nudged the young man’s arm away from his face. The unobstructed view had him grimacing. Kirk had bitten his lower lip— or jammed his hand so hard against his mouth that his teeth had cut through the tender flesh— leaving it bloody. The redness clashed garishly with the cadet’s sweaty pallor._

_“Damn it, your lip is bleeding. Hang on, kid.” McCoy strode to the bathroom, where he wet a washcloth with cool water. Back in the bedroom, he detoured to his med kit, extracting the portable dermal regenerator and a pair of gloves, before returning to Kirk. He laid the items on the bedside table and, sitting down on the edge of the bed, said, “Let me take a look.”_

_Kirk peered up at him, his gaze miserable. “I didn’t realize… I hope I didn’t get any blood on the pillow.”_

_McCoy drew on the gloves. “Not the end of the world if you did.” He gently swiped a finger across Kirk’s lower lip, wiping away the worst of the accumulated blood, looking for the source of the bleeding. “Doesn’t look too bad, fortunately,” he said, examining the small laceration. “Let’s clean you up and I’ll use the regen unit to repair it.”_

_Kirk gave a little sigh of relief at the cool touch of the washcloth. When the worst of the sweat and blood had been removed, McCoy set the cloth aside and picked up the unit. “Don’t move or try to talk until this finishes,” he cautioned. The kid watched him work from beneath heavy lids, lying quietly as the regenerator hummed. When it cycled off, Kirk cautiously touched his tongue to the now unbroken skin._

_“Thanks, Bones.”_

_McCoy studied him for a long moment. “You’re welcome, kid.”_

_“Jim.”_

_He laid the regen unit aside. “Fine. Jim it is.”_

The new accord hadn’t lasted long. Thinking he was cutting the kid— Jim— a break, McCoy had considered their previous exchanges an adequate substitution for the orientation questions. But when he had tried to check Jim’s pupils, the kid had knocked the penlight away, grumbling that he was tired, that the light hurt his eyes, that he was fine, that McCoy was fussing like an old woman….

_“Too damn bad. Shut up and suck it up, cadet. This exam is not optional.”_

And Jim had obeyed, jaw clenched, stoically enduring McCoy’s examination of his eyes.

But when McCoy left and returned with the metabolic milkshake, Jim had balked.

McCoy took another sip of coffee, smiling crookedly as he remembered how much Kirk had resembled a mutinous five-year-old refusing to take his medicine.

_“Listen, kid. If you don’t want a repeat of that leg cramp, you’ll drink this. Your electrolyte levels are depleted and your muscles aren’t very happy about it. You think your calf is the only muscle in your body? Your heart’s a muscle, too, kid. Just imagine how’ll you’ll feel if it, or any number of the other muscles in your body, decides to put up a protest in order to get your attention. Plus you’re on the borderline of being dehydrated.”_

He’d been quite proud of that little speech, especially since it had resulted in Jim reluctantly reaching for the glass.

The rest of the time until the 0500 alarm had been mercifully uneventful. McCoy had managed to make the exam a veritable model of efficiency; by 0508, Jim was horizontal again, checked, watered and hypoed with another dose of analgesic. By 0510, still riding the muscle relaxant, his breathing had taken on the rhythm of sleep.

One ear alert for any signs of distress, McCoy had dozed until 0600, when he had slipped out of bed for good. He’d showered and shaved. Padding out to the kitchen on bare feet, he’d quietly made coffee and, once it was done, poured a mugful. He’d taken it to his chair in the living room, settled in and, between sips, made his plans for the day.

The mug was almost empty when he heard the soft rap on the door. Pleased that the individual making the delivery had followed his instructions to knock instead of ringing, he set his coffee aside and hurried to the door.

“Morning, Dr. McCoy,” the young woman chirped when he opened the door and invited her inside. “Supplies from Starfleet General for you. You’ll need to sign the requisition,” she said, handing him a PADD.

“Do I know you? Your face looks familiar.”

“Agnes Santiago, sir. PhD Pharmacology student. My wife is in her first year of residency. Orthopedics. We live on the sixth floor, and we’ve shared the elevator a couple of times.”

McCoy nodded as he affixed his signature to the PADD, exchanging it for the holdall. “Thanks for bringing these over. I’m sorry they had to press you into courier duty.”

“Honestly, it wasn’t a problem,” she assured him. “I spent the night in my research lab and was on my home to have breakfast with Gabby, so it just made sense for me to drop these off and save someone else the trip.” She gave him a bright smile, looking entirely too energetic for someone who had been up all night. “Have a nice day, Dr. McCoy.”

“You, too, Ms. Santiago.”

He held the door for her as she left, as his mama had taught him to do for a lady, and saw a cart slowly weaving its way in his direction down the hallway. McCoy remained in the open doorway, watching as Agnes stepped briskly past the cart, giving it a wide berth, on her way back to the elevators. As the heavily loaded cart drew near, he saw that his hunch had been correct: it was the grocery delivery.

“Thanks for coming so early. Just set everything on the counter in the kitchen,” he ordered. “And try to keep the noise down. I’ve got a patient sleeping in the bedroom.”

“Wondered why you were ordering so much food,” the young man said, and began ferrying bags to the kitchen with brisk efficiency. “Your regular order is usually a lot smaller. This is the biggest delivery today, so I wanted to get it out of the way before the elevators got busy.” After several back-and-forth trips, the young man plunked the last bag down on the now-crowded counter and, turning, shot him a cheeky grin. “Hope it all fits in your cool-freeze, sir,” he said, and loped energetically through the open door past McCoy.

Was everyone _trying_ to make him feel tired? Shaking his head, McCoy quietly shut the door and headed to the kitchen to start the task of putting away the groceries.

* * *

McCoy thumbed the scanner off and laid the device aside.

The results were largely reassuring. Kirk’s cranial inflammation and edema were resolving nicely, thanks to the Gafronil. The cadet’s pain levels were down, too, although, according to the readout, his headache was still present. McCoy had a feeling he was going to have to keep a sharp eye on the kid. Kirk could easily stir things up with injudicious levels of physical activity.

The most concerning finding was Kirk’s depleted mineral and electrolyte levels and the cadet’s growing dehydration. The metabolic drinks had staved off the worst of the possible complications from the regen therapy but the kid’s body was crying out for fluids and food, hence the vicious, middle-of-the-night leg cramp.

Kirk was about to become very unhappy with him….

McCoy laid out the prepped items, placed the brick-shaped, portable antigrav hook on the wall above the bed, and hung the bag of intravenous fluids on it, the solution enhanced with replacement electrolytes and minerals. He ran the air out of the IV line and capped it, allowing the tubing to dangle down next to Jim’s pillow, where he could easily grab it once he’d inserted the catheter needle.

He grasped Kirk’s shoulder and shook it gently. “Jim? Time to wake up.”

The long, scrub-clad body stirred, and McCoy was rewarded with the sight of heavy-lidded blue eyes. “Bones?” Jim said huskily, in a tone halfway between recognition and uncertainty.

“That’s right.”

“Time for more questions?”

“Yes, and a few other things.” McCoy picked up the penlight. “You know the drill, so start talking.”

“James T. Kirk,” the kid intoned wearily, his voice rough.

McCoy flicked the beam of the penlight into each eye.

“October twelfth— no, wait.” Kirk darted a quick look at the nearby window. “It’s light outside, so it’s morning. Which makes it October thirteenth, right?”

McCoy grunted and set the penlight aside. “Your pupils are reacting normally, which is good news because you’re now officially over the twelve-hour post-injury hump. Neuro checks can be done every four hours now, instead of two. How’s the headache?”

“Fine. What time is it?”

“0735. Keep going, you’re on a roll.”

Kirk yawned and cautiously stretched. “I’m in Room 4142 in Bondar Hall. I’m in your dorm room, your bedroom to be precise.” He smiled sleepily. “Told you I had a good memory, Bones.”

“So you did,” McCoy said. He picked up the tourniquet. “I need your left arm.”

“What? Why?” Kirk asked, eyeing him warily.

“I’m going to start an IV. You need fluids and electrolytes.”

Kirk began to push himself up in bed, wincing as he did. “I can drink. Bring me some water, Bones. Even one of those awful shakes. I don’t need an IV.”

“Kid, you need more than that flat belly of yours is going to comfortably hold.” McCoy sighed. “Listen to me, Jim. You haven’t urinated since the accident, which was over fourteen hours ago. I know that your muscles are tender and sore, because your pain levels spike when you move. Your body is literally running on empty.” He shrugged. “If you prefer, I can have you transferred back to the ER for treatment. Or you can let me start the IV and give you a couple of liters of fluids. Once they’re onboard, you can get up, take a shower, and have some breakfast. Then you can go back to bed and I’ll hang two more while you sleep. It’s your choice.” McCoy allowed the silence to play out, counting on Jim’s dislike of hospitals to tip the balance in his favor.

“Fine. You win.”

“Smart decision. Now, give me your arm.”

The process was so ingrained, McCoy barely had to think about it, even without the assistance of an autostart device. He was aware of the kid’s gaze following his hands as he applied the tourniquet and disinfected the site. Kirk’s lack of body fat made it easy to find a suitable vein. “This will pinch a little,” he warned, his fingers poised to make the insertion into the distended vein.

Kirk didn’t react when he deftly inserted the needle and threaded the cannula into the vein. He attached the prepared syringe of normal saline to the hub and drew back on the plunger, testing for patency. Blood immediately flowed into the syringe, staining the salt solution red. McCoy adjusted his grip on the syringe and reversed the pressure on the plunger, flushing the cannula. With a deft twist, he detached the syringe, hooked the intravenous tubing to the port hub, and taped everything in place.

“All done,” he said, standing. The entire process had taken less than a minute. “How about something to drink before you go back to sleep?”

“I smell coffee. How about some of that? Black.”

McCoy snorted. “Not a chance. Not today anyway. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Well, if coffee is off the menu, water is fine.” Kirk glanced at the tubing attached to his arm. “How long is all this going to take? I’d really like to have that shower you offered. My scalp itches.”

The kid was likely feeling sore and grubby and, no doubt, a hot shower sounded enticing. McCoy sympathized, but the treatment of Kirk’s metabolic deficits was the primary concern. “These first two bags should finish up around 0900. Like I said, once they’re in, I’ll do a scan and, if things have improved, I’ll help you shower.”

Kirk grimaced. “No need to play nurse, Bones. I’ll be fine on my own.”

“We’ll see.”

“What about this?” Kirk asked, lifting his arm with the IV. “Will you have to take it out and restart it again afterwards?”

“It won’t be a problem. Don’t worry about it.”

Kirk sighed and closed his eyes. “Okay, Bones. Whatever you say.”

“Don’t fall asleep before I get back with your water,” McCoy ordered gruffly.

Jim hummed low in his throat in acknowledgement, his eyes dark-shadowed in his pale, fatigue-drawn face.

Even as McCoy strode briskly to the kitchen, filled a clean glass with water, and hurried back to the bedroom, he knew he was fighting a losing cause.Sure enough, Jim was sound asleep when he returned.


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Jim?” McCoy called softly, hating to wake the young man, but he’d just run another scan and the results showed significant improvements... with one glaring exception. Jim’s glucose level was at the extreme lower end of normal. He needed to eat. Since McCoy already suspected regular meals were low on Kirk’s priority list, that wasn’t apt to happen without some serious pushback, unless the kid got to take the shower he so badly wanted.

It was turning into a pretty day outside. Yesterday’s storm clouds had steadily dispersed, leaving behind a clear, rain-washed sky, bright sunshine and dripping trees. The daylight flooding into the bedroom had driven Jim to burrow deep beneath the covers, his head nearly buried under his pillow.

“Jim?” he repeated more loudly, carefully peeling back the blanket and sheet to avoid tangling them around the IV line.

“Mmm…?” 

“You want to shower or sleep?” 

Kirk yawned sleepily. “I need to use the head.” 

“It’s about damn time. Fluids are doing their job.” McCoy helped Jim turn over onto his back, keeping a close eye on the IV tubing. “Hold on while I get you unhooked.” 

The cadet swallowed another yawn. “Sure, Bones. Just be quick about it, okay? My bladder feels like it’s going to burst.” 

McCoy separated the line from the IV port, screwed a protective disinfectant cap onto the end of the tubing, then a second one onto the port, before covering the insertion site with the pliaderm bandage he’d removed from the med kit earlier and left on the bedside table. “There. Watertight and secure. You’re good to go.” 

“Thanks, Bones,” Kirk said. In a flurry of motion, he pushed upright and swung his legs over the side of the bed. McCoy expected him to sit on the edge of the bed for a minute and get his bearings, but the kid lurched to his feet. 

“Whoa, slow down. You’ve been horizontal for a long time.” McCoy grasped Kirk’s upper arm. “Nice and easy, now. How’s your head feeling?” he asked. “Any dizziness?”

Kirk took a deep breath, looking wan in the bright light streaming through the bedroom windows, and let it out slowly. “I’m good.” His gaze zeroed in on the closed door of the bathroom. “You can let go of my arm now.” 

“Not gonna do that. Let’s see how you handle walking.”

Kirk grimaced but he didn’t waste his breath arguing about it, which McCoy appreciated. What he didn’t appreciate was the headlong rush Kirk was making for the bathroom. He didn’t want the kid to pass out and give his skull another hard knock on the floor. “Slow down. It’s not a race.”

“Tell that to my bladder,” Kirk retorted but he moderated his pace slightly.

Once through the door - mercifully, without incident - Jim’s arm flexed beneath his grip as he reached for the drawstring on his scrub pants. “I’m good, Bones. Go find a chair and relax while I get cleaned up. You look a little tired.” 

McCoy snorted. “You’re joking, right? You see anything but hard surfaces in this room? The consequences of passing out in here would not be pretty.” He shook his head. “Thank you kindly, but I plan on staying.” 

“I had no idea you were such a mother hen,” Jim huffed, visibly annoyed. “At least turn around while I urinate.” 

McCoy crossed his arms and stood his ground. “You ain’t got nothin’ I haven’t seen a thousand times before, kid. I’m a doctor, for Christ’s sake.”

Biological imperative took the upper hand, giving McCoy the edge in the standoff. Jim raked him with a cutting glare, turned his back, and began relieving himself. 

“Let me take a gander before you flush,” McCoy said, when Kirk finished. He peered into the toilet bowl. “Still pretty concentrated. I want you to work on pushing fluids today when you’re awake, okay?” 

“Fine. Whatever makes you happy,” Jim said tersely, holding his untied pants in place with one hand. He flushed the toilet, edging away as much as the limited space of the bathroom allowed. A faint blush painted his cheekbones. “Seriously, Bones, I could use a little privacy here.” 

“And I could use an hour in the porch swing at Gram’s house with a glass of good bourbon. But I’m not gonna get what I want anytime soon, and neither are you. Now, you gonna shuck off those scrubs or are you passing on the shower?” 

If looks could kill…. “Shucking,” Kirk said stiffly, obviously still annoyed by McCoy’s intrusion into his personal space. 

McCoy turned away and opened the glass door to the shower. “Go ahead and get undressed. I’ll set the water temperature controls for you. Do you have a preference on the temperature?” 

“Anything around 43 degrees is fine.” 

McCoy took his time programming the shower controls, glancing at Kirk from time to time as he worked. He entered a ten second delay for the Start cycle, and quickly backed out of the stall.

Kirk stared at him for a long moment, before releasing his hold on his scrub pants. The cotton garment slipped from his body, pooling in folds around his ankles. Stepping out of the puddle of cloth, Kirk nudged them aside. Then, with another quick glance at McCoy, he reached for the hem of his scrub top and pulled it slowly over his head. 

McCoy was relieved to see the kid was able to get out of his scrubs without too much difficulty, although his movements were tentative and careful. Once naked, he hesitated, holding his bunched scrub top over his genitals, before letting it, too, drop to the floor. 

McCoy hadn’t figured on Kirk’s sense of modesty being such an issue, especially since the young man hadn’t made much of an issue about it in the ER except during McCoy’s direct examination of his genitalia and perineum during his physical exam. Since most patients reacted similarly, McCoy hadn’t given it a lot of thought. While he regretted embarrassing the young man now, it couldn’t be helped. Having brought the kid home with him, he was responsible for Kirk’s safety. Close monitoring was a given until he was confident Kirk would remain steady on his feet. 

“Light blue bottle is shampoo, the dark blue one is conditioner and the green bottle is body wash,” McCoy narrated, stepping back as far as the small room allowed. “There’s a clean washcloth on the shelf inside.” He motioned for Kirk to enter the shower. “It’s all yours, kid. Take your time.”

Kirk sidled past him, eyes averted, and stepped into the shower stall. McCoy closed the door behind him, crossed his arms, and leaned back against the sink countertop to keep watch. 

Bowing his head, Kirk stepped beneath the spray. The water immediately saturated his hair, turning the thick strands from bright gold to brown before he reached for the shampoo. McCoy watched Kirk closely for dizziness as he squirted the shampoo into his hair and, using both hands, began vigorously scrubbing his scalp. Kirk winced as he did so, but kept going. 

The suds turned pale pink as the dried blood in his hair liquified. Kirk stopped scrubbing, rinsed his hair, and reapplied the shampoo, his fingers moving steadily again over his scalp. He followed the second rinse with a squirt of conditioner, worked it through his hair, then rinsed it out beneath the spray. Wiping his eyes with his fingers, he picked up the washcloth— and hesitated. Bracing his free hand against the tiled wall, he lowered his head and stood unmoving, water cascading down his lean body.

McCoy moved swiftly. Yanking the shower door open, he barked, “You okay, Jim?” while reaching for Kirk’s shoulder.

Jim jerked at his touch, whirling to face him, easily breaking the hold McCoy had on his water-slick skin. Breathing hard, hands fisted at his sides, he looked feral, his eyes twin blue supernovas in a strikingly pale, tense face.

“Whoa,” McCoy said, holding up his hands in the universal ‘don’t shoot’ position. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I just want to make sure you’re not about to pass out. Are you feeling dizzy? Do you need to sit down?”

Kirk stared at him, as the water continued to pour over his head and run down his body. Then, just as McCoy was beginning to feel distinctly uneasy, the kid’s hands unclenched and he relaxed. “Sorry, Bones,” he said lightly. “Got light-headed for a second. No need to overreact.”

_I’m not the one who overreacted_.

“No worries, kid,” McCoy said, deliberately keeping his stance easy. “Maybe you should get out of there now.”

“No, I’m fine. Let me finish.” Kirk flashed him a determined smile and deliberately turned back around, maneuvering so that the water struck his shoulders and chest instead of his head. “I’m not sure when I’ll get the chance to shower again with designer body products. It smells like an Italian courtyard garden in here. Very classy.”

“Stop jerking my chain and finish up,” McCoy growled. A lot of his former life had gone up in the smoke generated by the scorching fire of his divorce. His preferences in toiletries and civilian clothing were two of the few things he’d managed to reclaim after climbing out of his alcoholic pity-party. Thank God that Gram was still alive, her hands firmly on the McCoy family assets, or Jocelyn would have stripped him of his entire heritage without a second thought.

Kirk began to lather up with the bodywash, running the soapy washcloth over his torso and long limbs. McCoy’s professional eye noted the near-perfect build, the visible play of muscles beneath the fair skin, all signs of good genes and peak conditioning. With all that pale skin, he’d bet Sunday supper that Kirk sunburned easily. In order to acquire and maintain the physical condition he was in, he must spend a lot of his free time working out. Was he a gym rat? A runner? Given the body modesty he’d displayed, did he date? With his looks, he’d have no problem acquiring sexual partners, if he wanted them. McCoy made a mental note to ask Kirk for information on both his sunscreen use and his sexual proclivities, which caused him to nearly laugh aloud over the odd juxtaposition of thoughts.

“What’s so funny?” Kirk asked, staring at him through the glass of the shower door.

“I’ll tell you later, while you eat. Are you about done?”

“Yeah,” Kirk said, shutting the water off. “All finished.”

McCoy snagged the folded bath towel off the counter and shook it out, handing it to Kirk when he stepped out of the shower. The open door released a waft of warm, humid air that was redolent of citrus and rosemary.

“I feel like a new man,” Jim said, burying his face in the thick, plush towel. “Wow, this is nice, Bones. Definitely superior to the towels the dorm provides.” He smirked at Bones. “Who knew you had such refined tastes underneath that cranky exterior?”

The kid was too damn observant. And annoying. McCoy stepped forward and snatched the towel out of Kirk’s hands. “Let’s get this show on the road, Jim,” he said brusquely, and proceeded to dry off Kirk’s back before wrapping the towel around the narrow waist.

“I’m not five years old, Bones,” Jim said, his blue eyes a little startled.

“You could have fooled me,” McCoy retorted, more than ready to get Jim out the little room with all its sharp, hard edges. “You can finish drying your legs and feet once you’re sitting down on the bed.”

“Whatever makes you happy.”

McCoy snorted. “Happy? I’d settle for mildly pleased, at this point.”

Jim grinned. “You sound like you’re a hundred years old.”

“I _feel_ a hundred years old, some days.”

“Well, you’re not,” Jim said. “You need to climb out of that pit of gloom you’re wallowing in.” The kid spread his arms, threatening the stability of the loosely wrapped towel. “There’s more to look forward to in life than designer bath products and nice towels. Although that’s a start. I can work with it.”

“Did anyone ever tell you that you talk too much?”

“Every day.”

“Color me surprised,” McCoy snarked.

Jim gave him a cheeky smile. “I may talk a lot but no one has told me I’m _wrong_.”

“They’re probably too busy running in the opposite direction.” 

Jim laughed, and McCoy felt an answering smile tug at his mouth.

And, dammit, the kid was right. It _did_ smell like an Italian garden in here.

* * *

“What’s this?” Kirk asked as McCoy slid the loaded plate in front of him.

Dressed in fresh scrubs, his teeth brushed and his hair combed, Jim Kirk looked like the new man he had called himself earlier, despite his lingering pallor. McCoy hoped a decent meal would improve Jim’s color.

“Farmer’s scramble, melon and whole wheat toast, with a glass of milk on the side.”

“I’m not sure I can eat all this.”

“You won’t know until you try,” McCoy said easily, sipping at a fresh mug of coffee. “And there’s a freshly made bed waiting for you when you finish. Nothing smells better than clean sheets, my mama always said.”

“You’re a tyrant.”

“I thought I was a mother hen.”

“You’re both.” Jim scooped up a forkful of eggs, eyeing the ham-and-vegetable-studded curds.

“This looks good, Bones.”

“You’re supposed to eat it, kid, not admire it.” 

Jim shot him a grin and ate the bite on his fork. He chewed slowly and deliberately, eyes closed, like some pretentious food connoisseur on a holo vid. Finally swallowing, he pronounced, “Tastes great. If you get tired of doctoring, you could apply for a position in the mess hall kitchen.” 

“How often do you actually eat anything from there?” McCoy asked, curious. 

“Most days,” Jim replied. “Aren’t you having any of this?” 

“I ate earlier, while you were sleeping. Does that include all three meals? One? Two? How many days don’t you eat anything at all?” 

“What?” 

McCoy took another swallow of coffee. “You said ‘most days.’ Flesh that out for me.” 

“Jeez, Bones, why are you so curious about my eating habits? I eat when I’m hungry, like everyone.” 

“I’m your physician of record now, remember? Humor me. I’m trying to fill in the holes in your medical chart.” 

Kirk sighed and stabbed a piece of melon. “If I didn’t already have a headache, all your questions would give me one,” he grumbled. “Look, getting to the mess hall at mealtimes hasn’t been easy for me, lately. I’ve had a lot of challenge exams to prepare for – and take – these past few weeks, plus all my regular classes. I ate when I could. But if it makes you feel any better, I took my last exam yesterday.” 

Well, it was an answer, albeit a somewhat evasive one. He still had no idea exactly what or how much Kirk was eating, but clearly the kid didn’t feel inclined to elaborate. McCoy sighed and shelved the topic of food for the time being. Besides, if he took what Jim was saying at face value, there was no sense in collecting data based on skewed circumstances. Time would tell whether the kid was being an honest reporter or not. 

“All the more reason for you to clean your plate now.” He took another sip of coffee. “And you should be glad I was asking about your food habits.” 

Kirk looked at him, his shadowed eyes wary. “Yeah? Why’s that?” 

“Because we could be discussing your sexual history.” 

Kirk’s grin was huge. And genuine. Which was surprising, after the display of modesty in the bathroom. 

“Got the hots for my body, Bones? Or do you just want some tips on how to get laid?” 

McCoy grimaced, and hoped he wasn’t blushing. “Maybe that blow to your head scrambled your brains more than I thought,” he said sarcastically. “You’re talking nonsense.” 

Kirk shrugged and took a bite of eggs. “You’ve been out of the game for a while, Bones. I’m just trying to help.” 

“Whaddya you mean, ‘out of the game’?” 

Kirk used a toast triangle as a pointer. “That white stripe on your ring finger? It looks to me like your divorce was pretty recent. You probably signed the papers the day before you stepped onto the shuttle, judging by the drunken, ranting meltdown you threw when the co-pilot dragged you out of the head.” 

This time, he did flush. “That doesn’t mean I need your advice on how to re-enter the dating world.” 

“If you say so,” Kirk said, sounding dubious. He took a bite of toast, chewing slowly and looking thoughtful. 

“So, from your responses, shall I assume you’re sexually active?” 

“When the opportunity presents,” he agreed, with another grin. 

“Do you practice safe sex?” 

Kirk rolled his eyes. “Do I look like an idiot?” 

“The jury is still out on that one,” McCoy said darkly. “Have you ever been treated for an STD?” 

“No, and you should stop asking such nosy questions.” 

“Doctor, remember?” McCoy said, pointing at his chest. “ _Your_ doctor, in fact. Two more questions and I’m done on this topic for the time being. How old were you when you became sexually active, and what is your sexual orientation?” 

“None of your business, and who cares?” 

McCoy raised an eyebrow. 

“Seriously, Bones, as long as everyone’s happy getting naked, why does any of that matter?” 

“Very egalitarian,” McCoy said dryly, wondering if the kid was espousing a belief based on personal practice or simply an ideational philosophy. “But age and emotional maturity at the time of an individual’s first intercourse experience are hugely predicative of that individual’s ability to form stable relationships as an adult.” 

“Wow, what boring psychology text is _that_ a quote from? You need better reading material, Bones.” With a sigh, Kirk laid his half-eaten toast aside. Rubbing his forehead, he said, “I can’t eat any more right now.” Between one breath and the next, Kirk’s pallor had increased and the tiny pain lines around his eyes and mouth had deepened. “Sorry.” 

Most of the eggs, half the melon and a few bites of toast. Not bad, all things considered. “Take a couple of swallows of your milk and I’ll help you back to bed.” 

The kid’s mouth tightened, and McCoy was sure he was about to refuse, but he reached for the glass instead and obediently took two swallows before setting the glass aside. “Ready,” he announced, and jumped to his feet, swaying as the little color he had regained drained from his face. 

McCoy hurriedly set down his coffee mug and rushed around the counter to grab the young man’s upper arm. “What did I tell you about rushing around, idiot? Take a deep breath. Do you need to sit down?”

“No, I’m fine. Just dizzy for a moment. Why does that keep happening? And when will it go away?” 

McCoy snorted. “Have you forgotten about the building that fell down around your ears, yesterday? Jesus, kid, you’ve got to stop running around like your tail’s on fire, especially for the next couple of days. Give your body a chance to recover and regain its equilibrium or you’re going to end up doing a face plant. And I’ll be pretty pissed if I have to fix your head twice in twenty-four hours.” 

“Okay, okay, I’ll be more careful. Stop fussing, Bones.” He tugged against McCoy’s steadying hold. “I’m fine now. You can let go of my arm.” 

McCoy dropped his hand but kept a sharp eye on Jim as they made their way to the bedroom. 

“Lie down and get comfortable,” he said, after steering Jim to the turned-down bed. “I’ll get your IV hooked up, do your checks, and then you can take a nice, long nap. You won’t be due for another round of neuro checks until this afternoon at 1400.” He sat down on the edge of the bed to get a better angle on Jim’s arm. After carefully peeling off the clear pliaderm film covering the IV insertion site, he reached up and snagged the trailing end of the prepped intravenous tubing. Removing the protective caps from both the catheter needle and the tubing, McCoy connected them with a deft twist of his fingers. After re-taping the tubing into place, he opened the line. In a few moments, the solution began to steadily drip, sending much needed fluid and electrolytes directly into Jim’s vascular system. 

McCoy lightly tapped the back of Jim’s hand. “Okay, you’re free to move that arm, now, but don’t jerk on the tubing. I’ll be in and out periodically to check on the infusion but I’ll try not to wake you.” He leaned forward and picked up the penlight. “Let me check your pupils and I’ll leave you to rest.” 

Jim winced at the play of light. “I’ll be glad when you don’t have to do that anymore.” 

“Two more times after this one. Then, if we don’t encounter any problems, I can discontinue the checks. Twenty-four hours will have elapsed since the injury, and you’ll be in the clear.” 

“Good to know,” Jim said tiredly. Turning his face deeper into the pillow, he closed his eyes. 

“How’s the headache?” 

“Okay. It’s not going to kill me.” 

_But it’s probably not going to let you rest easily, either._

McCoy walked over to the med kit and loaded a hypospray with another dose of Contonicin. Returning to the bed, he placed the device against the side of Jim’s exposed neck and triggered it. “That should take care of the pain and help you sleep.” 

Jim’s eyelids fluttered. “Jeez, you’re a maniac with that thing, Bones. Give me a heads-up, the next time.” 

“Why? So you can tell me you don’t need it, when clearly you do?”

Jim huffed, and turned on his side, drawing the covers up to his chin as he did. “Go away, Bones. I’m sure you’ve got more important things to do than harass me with unnecessary hyposprays.” 

McCoy shook his head. Jim Kirk had an outsized streak of stubborn independence which was probably going to be a major pain in his ass to manage, now that he’d agreed to be the kid’s physician of record. He could just imagine Jocelyn’s scalding laughter, since she’d often accused him of having the same irritating character flaw. 

_Really, Leonard? Isn’t that a bit like the pot calling the kettle black?_

McCoy frowned and, with an effort, pushed the memory of Joce’s mocking voice aside. “Shades, 100%,” he ordered, and the windows instantly darkened, occluding the bright sunshine, leaving the room dim and shadowed. 

If only it were that easy to block out the bitter memories of his past.


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

McCoy had just left the bedroom, where he’d hung Jim’s fourth, and last, bag of IV solution, and was on his way to the little kitchen to make himself some lunch when his door chimed, the sound shockingly loud in the quiet of the room. Cursing under his breath, McCoy hurried to answer before it could chime again. He’d left Jim sleeping peacefully; he’d like the kid to stay that way.

He opened the door to find a smartly dressed ensign waiting in the hallway, the creases in his uniform pants sharp enough to slice bread.

“Dr. McCoy?” he inquired, sounding doubtful.

“Yes, that’s right,” he acknowledged.

It was probably the jeans, McCoy figured, along with the Johns Hopkins Medical Center sweatshirt and the leather slippers, that had the ensign staring dubiously at him. Christ, did the man really expect him to be decked out in Med whites at home? Since his arrival at the Academy, he’d noticed that Starfleet personnel had a tendency to focus on the uniform, not the person inside it, as if the sum total of who you were could be defined by the rank – or lack of it – you wore.

“Compliments of the commandant,” the young man said briskly, apparently deciding he wasn’t trying to pull a fast one, after all. He removed a PADD and a communicator from his satchel, and handed them to McCoy. “For Cadet Kirk. To replace the ones that were discovered in the wreckage.”

“I’ll make sure he gets them when he wakes up.”

“Thank you, sir. Also, Commandant Pike would like Cadet Kirk to comm him as soon as he feels up to it.” The ensign hesitated. “Do you have any idea when that might be, sir? How is he doing?”

“I don’t know when Jim— when Cadet Kirk will awaken but I’ll pass the message along when he does. Kirk’s in fair condition, so I suspect he’ll be in touch yet today, if his condition remains stable.”

“Thank you, sir,” the ensign said again, looking relieved. “I’ll let Commandant Pike know.” He snapped off a salute before wheeling around and striding off.

McCoy quietly closed the door and leaned back against it, lips pursed in thought.

Well, now, wasn’t that interesting? This was the first time, outside the hospital, he hadn’t been treated like gum on the bottom of someone’s boot. McCoy wondered if that was a result of Captain Pike’s instructions, Jim’s heroic actions yesterday, or just the ensign’s personal take on the situation. Maybe all three, for all he knew, but it was the first indication he’d had that Starfleet’s regular ranks weren’t totally comprised of rule-following yes-men and assholes.

Straightening, McCoy walked back into the cramped living area and placed the two items on the battered coffee table for Jim to deal with when he awoke. After his own early start to the day and busy morning, he was more than ready for some lunch, and he planned to continue reviewing Jim’s Iowa medical records while he ate.

It didn’t take long to throw together a chicken sandwich, and he carried the plate into the living room, setting it on the scratched end table alongside the ancient armchair, next to his mug of coffee. Sitting, he crossed his legs and picked up his PADD, balancing it on his thigh, before reaching for his sandwich and settling back into the chair’s lumpy embrace. Taking a bite, McCoy contemplated the screen in front of him, glad to finally have the opportunity to do some more sleuthing into Jim’s medical history.

Tucking Kirk into bed after the late breakfast, he’d realized that the weekend was in danger of getting away from him, so he’d forced himself to finish the detailed outline of his xeno-pharmacology paper that was due on Friday instead of reading more of Jim’s chart as he was itching to do. Creating the structure for a solid, ten-page paper had been pretty straightforward since he’d had plenty of experience in his former life with writing articles based on his medical research. He’d also reluctantly completed the reading for Monday’s History of the Federation class, aka Federation History from a military viewpoint, which had been equal parts boring and useless. Depending on the class, his courses ranged from interesting to a waste of time, but they all required a shit-ton of reading and other homework.

In-between homework assignments, he’d made sure to perform regular checks on Kirk’s IV. The kid had been out cold each time, his breathing deep and even. Eating, and using the head, coupled with the let-down effect of adrenal fatigue, had apparently exhausted him – and told McCoy quite a bit about the toll the injuries from the explosion had taken on Kirk’s body.

Finally finished with his homework for the time being, McCoy settled into the more interesting task of forging a more thorough acquaintance with Kirk’s medical history. He clicked to the beginning of the records from IUH that he had downloaded to his PADD – the oldest, chronologically – and starting reading.

_…3-year-old transferred via emergency medical shuttle from Riverside Urgent Care on 2236.43 in acute respiratory distress... admitted to Pediatric ICU… suffered respiratory failure secondary to acute anaphylactic reaction caused by antibiotic, Vintallicillin… patient intubated and placed on respirator… alternate antibiotic, Eryosyn, initiated… patient responding slowly… Tranestin added to pharmacologic regimen… extubated 2236.49… discharged home 2236.56… referrals to Pulmonology, Allergy and Home Care…_

The pneumonia that Jim had mentioned in the Emergency Room had been more serious than he’d let on. Whether Kirk had intentionally concealed the gravity of his illness or not, reading between the lines made it clear to McCoy that Jim had been gravely ill and nearly died. A three-year-old with bilateral pneumonia? One who’d suffered a severe allergic response? It was a miracle the kid had survived.

It was a pattern that recurred throughout the remainder of Jim’s chart.

The notes on the Danthers-Duseault therapy filled page after page, charting Jim’s rollercoaster ride of recovery. But it was the initial consultation that McCoy found most interesting. _…extensive discussion with child’s mother, Winona Kirk… advised her to delay the start of therapy due to child’s significant pneumonia 20 months ago and subsequent stress to his fragile immune system… mother states she is returning to active duty with Starfleet in two months… further states she “will be out of reach for extensive periods of time” and that her son’s immune system “needs to be stabilized so she is not required to deal with his allergic reactions in the future from deep space”…_

McCoy tugged at his bottom lip, wondering whether Winona Kirk’s insistence on the therapy was due to necessity or indifference.

Read one way, the specialist’s notes could be interpreted as a means of justifying his decision to proceed with the therapy despite Jim’s age and medical history, due to the needs of a working, one-parent household. Sixty months was the minimum age for the treatment to be initiated, so Jim had met the age criteria. However, he had been a preemie at birth, which normally would have any competent physician proceeding very, very cautiously.

But, from another perspective, the information noted on the PADD screen could just as easily be read as a troubling take on a less than ideal family situation.

McCoy tapped a key, calling up the nursing notes this time, rather than the doctors’ progress notes, and began to skim the entries, searching… There. Seven weeks and four days into Jim’s recovery, an entry leapt out at him. _…Mother visited today and informed Jimmy that she is leaving Earth in six days. She stated that if he is still hospitalized at that time, ‘Uncle Frank’ will take him home when he is discharged. Jimmy is very upset and crying inconsolably. O2 sats degraded rapidly, and oxygen was restarted via nasal cannula. Request made to Social Work and Discharge Planning departments to ascertain appropriateness of this individual for post-hospitalization care…_

Jesus. Who the hell dumped that kind of news on a sick kid and expected him to be okay with it? Jim had been _five_ , for Christ’s sake. He’d still been fragile, health-wise, too, and McCoy knew from going through the reams of physician progress notes, and matching then up by dates with the ancillary entries, that his mother’s departure had precipitated a real set-back in his progress. Jim hadn’t been discharged until three weeks after his mother left Earth.

McCoy tapped more keys, searching for the social worker’s intake evaluation on the man Winona Kirk had chosen to care for her children while she was in the black. A shiver washed over him – his great-grandmother would have said a goose had just walked over his grave – as he was caught in the grip of a grim foreboding and a desperate desire to be proved wrong. Finally, he found what he was looking for in the notes from a group discharge planning session that included Jim’s Allergy Attending, a nurse from the inpatient unit, a discharge planner, and the social worker. The social worker’s assessment had included the following facts:

_Mr. Frank Hawthorne, a single, 38-year-old male, was granted restricted guardianship of Jimmy, as well as his brother Sam, who is four years older than Jimmy, by Commander Winona Kirk. Guardianship is valid for day-to-day custodial care and routine and emergency medical decision-making on behalf of both children. A legal document outlining these rights has been drafted by the Commander’s personal attorney, with all signatures duly witnessed and notarized. A copy has been filed with the hospital and is available for review._

_Mr. Hawthorne states he is not a blood relative of the Kirk family, despite Commander Kirk referring to him as an uncle of the children. Rather, he is the adopted son of Jimmy’s paternal grandmother’s sister and brother-in-law (both now deceased). Frank Hawthorne is not currently employed. He states he quit his job as an e-car mechanic in order to “help Winnie out of a tight spot.” Mr. Hawthorne further states it is his intention to remain a full-time stay-at-home custodial adult. He appears quite confident of his ability to manage both the household and the boys, despite having had little contact with either child since Commander Kirk’s return to the family farm after the Kelvin tragedy._

_I have many reservations about this arrangement, not the least being that Mr. Hawthorne is a virtual stranger to the children. Therefore, I am referring this case to the child’s local Washington County health department’s social worker, and requesting that regular visits occur for a minimum of one year, in order to monitor the children’s home environment and well-being._

With numb fingers, McCoy maneuvered through the records until he relocated the entry from the emergency room pertaining to the trauma Jim had sustained when he was twelve. The first time he’d read through it, he’d been more focused on the injuries. Now, McCoy dug deeper.

_…requesting that legal contact the Riverside Police Department and ensure that assailant, Frank Hawthorne, is in custody. In addition, legal is requested to liaise with the Washington County district attorney in order to file charges against the assailant on behalf of the victim, James T. Kirk, who is currently being maintained in a medically-induced coma…_

McCoy reached out blindly and grabbed his mug, took a bracing swallow of the cold coffee, wishing it were a shot of bourbon. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Jim spoke from behind him.

“Bones? Can you take this thing out of my arm? The bag is practically empty.”

McCoy carefully closed Jim’s medical record and brought up the chapter in his History of the Federation text that he had already read in its place, before laying the PADD aside. “Sure,” he said, adopting a bland expression before rising from the chair.

When McCoy turned around, Jim was leaning against the doorway to the bedroom, holding the nearly empty IV bag in his upraised hand. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were heavy-lidded but the pain lines around his mouth and eyes had softened. “Did you get lost in your reading?” he asked.

“What can I say?” McCoy replied, shrugging. “History of the Federation is a real page-turner.”

“Apparently,” Jim said, yawning. “I thought you’d be monitoring my every exhale, so I was a little surprised to wake up and find this...” He yawned, again, and the arm holding the bag began to droop.

“Let me take that,” McCoy said, hastily reaching for the drained intravenous bag. Once he had it in his grasp, he gestured for Jim to move back into the bedroom. “It will be easier for me to remove the cannula if you lie down on the bed. All the supplies I need are on the bedside table.”

“Okay.” Once back in bed, and horizontal, Jim eyed the insertion site. “When I woke up and you weren’t here, I almost took it out myself. But then I remembered what a control freak you are, and decided I’d better not. Figured you’d report me for practicing medicine without a license.” He offered McCoy a crooked smile. “So, have at it, Bones.”

Ten minutes later, IV cannula out and the site nearly invisible after a cycle with the dermal regenerator, McCoy settled Jim on the lumpy sofa in the living room. “Commander Pike had those delivered,” he said, pointing at the waiting PADD and communicator. “According to the ensign who delivered them, they’re replacements for the ones you lost when the stairwell collapsed.”

Kirk nodded. “I remember having my communicator in one hand and my PADD in the other.” A thin smile twisted his lips. “I was going to call you as soon as I reached the lobby, to talk about where we wanted to meet for drinks later, but…”

“But?” McCoy prompted.

“One minute, I was headed down the stairs. The next, my ears were ringing and I was falling. I don’t remember dropping my stuff.”

“Not surprising.” He leaned over and pushed the devices within easier reach. “Pike wants you to call him.”

Kirk’s gaze sharpened. “Pike called you?”

“Naw. His by-the-book ensign delivered the message for him when he dropped off the devices. I can step out, if you’d like some privacy to make your call.” He nodded towards the desk in the corner. “Feel free to use my comm unit.”

Kirk flicked a glance at the desk unit. “Pretty rude, to chase you out of your own apartment.”

McCoy shrugged. “A few turns down the hall and back won’t kill me.”

“That’s not necessary, Bones.” Jim’s lips quirked. “You’ve already seen me naked. I don’t have any secrets left for you to discover.” His amused blue eyes gleamed with innocence.

McCoy snorted. “Right. Well, then, I’ll just go and put some snacks together for the two of us while you make your call.” He hesitated. “Call out if you feel dizzy. I won’t be far.”

Jim rolled his eyes. “Your desk is six feet away, not six miles. I’ll be fine. Go.”

“That smart mouth is going to get you in trouble one of these days,” McCoy grumbled.

“Seriously? Do you listen to yourself? You sound like a cranky old fart.”

“Whatever,” McCoy groused, suppressing a smile, and headed to the kitchen, one ear nonetheless tuned to Jim. He heard his desk chair squeak as he opened the chill-freeze, followed by the faint sound of tapping keys. The comm unit hummed.

“Commandant Pike’s office, Ensign O’Malley speaking. How may I help you.”

“Cadet Kirk calling for Commandant Pike. He asked to speak with me.”

“Oh, yes! One moment, please, Cadet Kirk.”

McCoy smiled as he continued to slice rectangles of cheese off the block of cheddar, laying them in a neat row next to the salami rounds on the plate. He was trying to give Jim some privacy by staying out of sight in the kitchen, but it was mostly an illusion. The apartment just wasn’t that big, and sound carried – the ensign’s pleased relief was clearly audible.

“Jim! Thanks for getting back to me, son. How are you feeling?”

“Fine, sir. Looking forward to resuming my normal activities.”

A pause. “Well, I’ll concede your face looks better than it did after the Shipyard Bar fight. However, Dr. McCoy’s report indicates you should be on medical leave until Monday, and then light duty for a week after that.”

“That’s really not necessary, sir. I’m feeling much better.”

Even from the kitchen, Leonard could hear Pike’s sigh. “I agreed with the recommendations Dr. McCoy submitted, and I’ve already forwarded notice of your restrictions to your instructors. So, there’s no need to leap back in at the deep end of the pool right away. Try taking it a little easy for once.”

A longer pause. “Thanks for replacing my stuff, sir.”

Leonard snorted silently as he emptied a sleeve of crackers into a bowl. The kid had abruptly abandoned the topic of his health when Pike’s conversation made it clear there wasn’t going to be any leeway granted. The mystery was why he’d even tried. Kirk still had a significant headache; why pretend otherwise?

“Least I could do, Jim.” Pike’s voice sounded warm and gentle. “We’ve got some grateful parents who’d like to thank you in person for everything you did. Both of those cadets you extracted are going to make it. It’s looking like Damarski will keep her leg, too, although she’s got a few rounds of reconstructive surgery ahead of her.”

“I… I did what anyone would have done. I just wish I’d gotten them freed from the rubble sooner. And that’s great news about Nikki’s leg.”

He cleared his throat, and Leonard wondered if it was dry from a lack of fluids or from embarrassment.

“There’s no need for anyone to thank me, sir. I’d prefer it if no one made a big deal about it, in case the press gets involved. I’d rather not have to deal with nosy reporters.”

A longer pause, this time. “I understand,” Pike said quietly. “No hugs and happy tears from strangers. I’ll tell them you’re shy.”

McCoy rolled his eyes. 

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate your willingness to run interference with Starfleet’s PR department. I’m sure Commander Garfield had a nice little press gig planned with plenty of refreshments – and photographers. You know, the usual dog and pony show when the Kirk name is involved.”

Pike laughed wryly. “I see you’re still pissed about their last publicity stunt. Alright, Jim. I’ll nix Garfield’s public event but I’m afraid I can’t do anything about the commendation for ‘actions above and beyond’ that the Academy Board will be bestowing.”

Leonard pursed his lips in a silent whistle. A commendation? What-all had Kirk done on scene?

“Honestly, that’s not necessary, sir. I was there. I just did what I could.”

“That’s a pattern with you, Jim,” Pike said softly. “One I personally admire, son. Please let me know if there’s anything else you need or if you receive any pushback from your instructors on the light duty restrictions. Like I said on the day you enlisted, I intend to keep a much closer eye on you this time, son. This time, there won’t be anyone running interference. I’m damn sorry about losing touch, son. That won’t happen again.” McCoy heard him clear his throat. When Pike spoke again, his voice was firmer, more authoritative. “The commendation is non-negotiable. And well-earned, in my opinion. Now, you get some rest. We’ll talk again soon.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And take it easy on the studying this weekend.”

“I will, sir.”

“See that you do. That’s an order, son. Pike, out.”

McCoy heard the faint hum of the connection fade to silence. Questions whirled in his head but he forced a mask of benign calm into place. If there was one thing he’d already learned about his patient, it was that Jim carefully guarded his privacy. He was adept at deflecting with a smile or a joke or a well-placed question, while his blue, blue eyes warned you to keep your distance.

Picking up the plate, McCoy headed back to the living room.

“How about something to eat?” he asked, setting the plate on the battered coffee table with a smile. “And I have lemonade or water to drink. Which would you prefer?”

There would be plenty of time later to poke more deeply into the mystery called Jim Kirk.


	9. Chapter Nine

CHAPTER NINE

_What the hell?_

Jarred out of a sound sleep by the blow to his face, Leonard sat up in bed and tried to gather his startled wits. Rubbing his stinging jaw, he called out, “Lights, 20 percent!”

Light bloomed. Blinking, he barely managed to dodge another blow – this time an elbow to his ribs. Swallowing a curse, he stretched out a cautious arm and shook Jim’s shoulder.

“Jim! Wake up, kid. You’re having a nightmare.”

His attempt to rouse the young man failed. Instead, Kirk’s eyes remained closed and his agitation increased. He began to thrash wildly, muttering under his breath.

“Don’t… stop… leave me alone… please…”

Leonard grabbed the tricorder from his nightstand and quickly ran a scan.

_It wasn’t a nightmare. It was a night terror. A horse of a whole different color._

Leonard set the tricorder aside, troubled. With night terrors, as opposed to a run-of-the-mill nightmare, physical contact typically made things worse, often prolonging the time the victim spent inside the nightmare they were experiencing. The last thing McCoy wanted to do was to cause Jim to bang his head again or do himself some other injury. As awful as it was to witness, as helpless as it made McCoy feel, he knew the best thing to do was to let the episode play out – and provide what comfort he could afterward.

Rubbing his eyes, Leonard eased himself out of bed, hoping that if Jim no longer sensed a presence next to him, the episode would end all the sooner. On bare feet, he padded to the kitchen and filled two glasses with cold water. Setting one aside, he leaned back against the counter and sipped slowly at the other, contemplating this latest wrinkle in Jim Kirk’s recovery.

Was the kid prone to nightmares? There had been nothing noted in his childhood records following his discharge from the hospital for the injuries his ‘uncle’ had inflicted. A period of follow-up psychological therapy and counseling was standard procedure after an assault, but McCoy hadn’t seen any treatment summaries from a mental health professional in Kirk’s old chart notes. In fact, the years following the incident had been mostly blank, with no mention of nightmares or night terrors – or any other medical treatment, for that matter.

McCoy sighed and took a last swallow of water before setting his glass aside and picking up the full one to take back to the bedroom. Just one more troubling hole in Kirk’s medical history that would need filling. He wondered if the kid would be as close-mouthed and touchy about this topic as he’d been about his relationship with Captain Pike.

_“So, you knew Pike before you joined the Academy?”_

_Jim went still. He laid the carrot stick he’d been nibbling aside, adopting the expressionless mask that McCoy was beginning to learn meant ‘Keep out. No trespassing allowed.’_

_“Not exactly.”_

_McCoy looked at him askance. “Seems like a pretty simple question to me. What am I missing? Were you pen pals or something? I could see Pike being into that kind of thing.” He chewed thoughtfully on a bite of cracker topped with cheese before swallowing and saying, “He definitely talked to you like he knew you.”_

_Jim frowned. “He just thinks he knows me. I’m not that person anymore.”_

_Well, this was getting interesting. Murkier, but interesting. “So Pike knew you when you were younger? Sounds like pen pals isn’t far off the mark, then.” He pursed his lips. “And he sounded… fond of you. Like a big brother. Or a father,” he mused._

_As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wanted to call them back. His grandmother had warned him years ago, when he was a boy. She’d said, “You’ve got a sassy mouth, Leo. It’s going to get you in trouble more times than you see coming, if you don’t learn to control it.” And here he was proving her right. Again._

_Jim reacted as badly as he’d feared._

_“Pike’s not my dad!” He tossed a scornful look McCoy’s way, his eyes overly bright. “You’re a smart guy, Bones. You must know my dad died on the Kelvin.”_

Father is deceased in the line of duty…

_Sweet Jesus, Jim Kirk was the Kelvin Baby. He’d let that notation in the kid’s medical chart go right over his head. Dying while serving wasn’t exactly rare in Starfleet. Lord, have mercy, he’d really stepped in it._

_“I apologize, Jim. My ex always said I had a knack for making the worst faux pas.” McCoy rubbed his chin, feeling about as high as a snake’s belly. “I didn’t mean to stir up old wounds. One of my worst failings is picking at a puzzle, whether it’s mine to solve or not. I’ve never learned to leave well enough alone. I’m sorry I mentioned your dad. And I’m sorry your dad died. By all accounts, he was a good man.”_

_Jim stared at him. Slowly, too slowly for McCoy’s comfort, the defiance faded from his blue eyes. Then, apparently accepting McCoy’s apology, he relaxed his rigid shoulders and inhaled deeply._

_“Sorry. Didn’t mean to bite your head off, Bones.”_

_“I understand.” Jim Kirk wasn’t the only one who preferred to avoid the subject of fathers. “No apologies, needed. The fault was all mine.”_

_Jim picked up the abandoned, half-eaten carrot stick, turning it in his fingers, his gaze downcast. “Pike… well, it’s no big deal. Starfleet brass sent him to my house when I was little, to check up on my mom. She was still in her ‘get-the-hell-off-my-property-before-I-shoot’ phase but Pike managed to find a way around that and ended up staying for Thanksgiving.”_

_“How old were you?”_

_He looked up at Bones. “Two. Pike was patient and friendly. I spent hours with him.” Jim shook his head. “From my perspective, it was a great time, but I’m sure I was exhausting to be around. My mom always said I was, anyway. But he never let on. And then, after Thanksgiving, he left, and I never heard from him or laid eyes on him again. Well, not until that night, a month ago, at the Shipyard Bar in Riverside.”_

_“He recognized you?”_

_Jim smiled humorlessly. “Hardly. You saw how I looked on the shuttle the next day. A lotta miles between that face and that of an innocent two-year-old. No, he asked the bartender who I was, while I was in the bathroom washing off the blood from the fight.”_

_McCoy pondered that for a long minute. Jim had been two, yet he referenced that long ago meeting like it had taken place last week. How much would a two-year-old child really remember? He needed to dig deeper into Jim’s records. The kid was obviously bright or he wouldn’t be challenging so many of his first-year courses._

_A fragment of their ER conversation floated up:_ “I’ve got a pretty good memory…”

_McCoy sighed. Jim had assured him in the Emergency room that his memory was better than most. Maybe he should just start taking the kid at his word…_

Pushing away from the counter, he walked back to the bedroom, hoping Jim’s night terror had played itself out and he would be sleeping, or, at worst, drowsy. If Jim was partially awake, he’d get him to drink some of the water before he resettled into sleep.

Instead, to his dismay, he found Kirk sitting on the edge of the bed, white-knuckled hands gripping his knees. His disheveled hair was wet with sweat, the bright gold now a dull brown, and dark blotches of sweat also stained his scrub top.

McCoy crossed the room in a rush, hastily disposing of the glass of water on the nightstand.

“Jim? You okay, kid?”

Jim shivered and looked at him out of haunted eyes. His white face caused McCoy’s physician nerves to jangle in alarm.

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

McCoy barely had time to grab the wastebasket – one he’d lined with a biohazard liner the night before, in deference to Jim’s concussion headache – and thrust it between Jim’s knees before the kid bent over the receptacle and proceeded to vomit up everything he’d eaten for dinner.

_Damn it all._

The kid was unraveling right in front of his eyes, and all that retching wasn’t going to help his headache any. McCoy rubbed slow circles between Jim’s shoulder blades, offering what comfort he could with his presence, as Jim shivered and heaved. When the spasms finally died away, he lifted his hand from Jim’s damp-shirted back and handed him the glass of water.

“All done?” he asked softly.

“Think so,” Jim hazarded, taking a small sip of the water and swishing his mouth. The glass wavered in his grasp as he leaned over to spit into the wastebasket, and McCoy gently removed it from Jim’s trembling hand before it could spill.

“How about we get you into the bathroom? You can brush your teeth and finish rinsing the bad taste out of your mouth while I get things tidied up.”

“I want a shower.”

“Not a good idea. You’re shaking.”

“It’ll pass. It always does.”

“Jim…”

“I’m sweaty and my scrubs have vomit on them, so I need to change anyway before I go back to bed. A shower will wash away the stench.” His blue eyes were pleading. “I just want to feel clean again, Bones.”

_God damn it, I’m going to say yes because I’d feel exactly the same way if the shoe was on the other foot._

“Okay. But I don’t want any lip about my seeing you naked again, because I’m gonna stay in the bathroom with you until I’m sure you’re not going to pass out in the shower.”

“Whatever you say.”

“And if and when I do leave, you have to promise you’ll stay put until I come back to get you out.”

A ghost of a smile curved Jim’s pale lips. “Promise. Now, can we please go?”

Grumbling under his breath, McCoy placed a steadying hand under Jim’s elbow and walked him to the bathroom. He flicked the lights on and winced at Jim’s involuntary groan. The small room was shockingly bright, compared to the dimly lit bedroom, and the glare off the tiles made McCoy’s tired eyes sting.

Jim stumbled to the sink, bracing himself with one hand on the counter, the other reaching for his toothbrush. He opted first for a sonic cycle, then switched the handle to manual before applying a generous amount of toothpaste. McCoy propped his shoulder against the wall and let Jim take his time brushing. He’d had his share of morning pukes after too many injudicious nights of drinking-to-forget, so he knew the vile taste was hard to scrub away.

“Finished?” he asked as Jim spat a final time, rinsed the toothbrush and his mouth, and straightened from his hunched stance over the sink.

“Yeah.” He pulled the scrub top away from his torso, and cautiously sniffed the tented material. “I smell like the alley behind a dive bar, but I’m hoping that’s my clothes and not my breath.”

“Only one way to find out,” McCoy said, observing Jim closely despite his relaxed pose. The kid’s hands had stopped shaking but he was still sheet-pale. Speaking of which…

“I want to tidy up the bedroom. Why don’t you prove to me you’re steady enough to undress and get in the shower without help.”

“Sure thing, Bones. But I’ll be fine. Trust me.”

“I’m more a ‘seeing is believing’ kind of guy.” McCoy waggled his fingers. “Clothes off. Let me know if you feel dizzy or unsteady.”

Jim carefully shed his scrub top and pants, giving no sign that he was distressed at being scrutinized. He didn’t make eye-contact, though, as he eased into the shower, and he kept his head bent. It was hard to tell, McCoy thought, whether that was because Jim was trying to hide his self-consciousness at being nude or whether he was watching his step to keep from tripping because his balance was off.

Once Jim was safely in the shower, McCoy waited to be sure no problems were going to immediately arise. He filled the time by laying out a fresh towel for Jim, along with his comb. Catching sight of his own scruffy-looking, stubbled face in the mirror, he removed his razor from the medicine cabinet and quickly shaved. When he was done, he laid it next to the waiting comb, in case Jim wanted to shave, as well.

He cast a long glance at the steam-filled shower stall. Jim seemed to be steady enough as he shampooed his hair, soapy water streaming down the planes and angles of his body.

Time to hustle.

Picking up Jim’s dirty scrubs, McCoy strode into the bedroom and dumped them on the bed. He snagged the noxious biohazard bag from wastebasket, sealed it, and relined the receptacle with a fresh bag. Quickly stripping the sheets from the bed, he gathered everything, linens and clothing in one hand, biohazard bag in the other, and hurried out of the room.

“Lights 50%,” he ordered, and the living area and kitchen brightened. Once in the kitchen, he moved quickly. Opening the recycler, McCoy dropped the biohazard bag inside, triggered the medical waste setting, and let it run. He deposited the bundle of dirty laundry in the fresher, checked to be sure there was still enough detergent and softener in the auto-deposit, and started the cleaning cycle.

Ordering the lights off on his way back to the bedroom, McCoy paused outside the bathroom. He could hear that the shower was still running, so he put his head inside the door.

“You still doing okay, Jim?”

“Quit hovering. ’m fine.”

“I’m going to go remake the bed. Then I’ll come back and get you out of there, so finish up.”

Striding into the dimly lit bedroom, McCoy deftly remade the bed with fresh linens, then collected a fresh set of scrubs for Jim, and headed back to the bathroom.

Jim was a statue beneath the showerhead, head and shoulders bowed, hair dripping. He’d angled his body so that the spray of water struck him between his shoulder blades. A frisson of concern set McCoy nerves tingling.

“Jim? You okay, kid?”

No response.

“Dammit, Jim, answer me.”

McCoy was reaching for the shower door when Jim came back to life.

“Bones,” he said, slowly lifting his head. He stared at McCoy with dazed eyes, his lashes clumped and dark with moisture.

“Turn off the water and get your skinny ass out here,” McCoy ordered roughly, “before I have to scrape you off the floor.”

“Okay,” Jim said. He fumbled the shower dial twice before he managed to halt the flow of water. Stepping out, he banged his shoulder sharply on the shower door frame, causing the door to rattle and vibrate. “Ow!” he protested, blinking. “Sorry.”

No sass. Shadowed eyes. Coordination off. The kid must be feeling like shit.

“No harm done, except to yourself. Let me see your shoulder.”

Jim half-turned away. McCoy was sure Jim’s reaction was an instinctive gesture of evasion because the small bathroom had precious little space in which to maneuver, much less hide, especially with the two of them already standing inside it.

“It’s fine,” Jim protested, snagging the towel from the counter and burying his face in the folds.

“It won’t hurt for me to take a look,” McCoy said mildly.

He used a corner of the hanging towel to dry off Jim’s arm and shoulder. The crown of Jim’s shoulder was already a dark red, although the taut skin was unbroken.

“You banged it pretty good, kid. It’s already bruising. I’ll run a regen over it once you’re in bed.”

Jim uncovered his face and turned his head to peer at his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, Bones. I collect worse bruises in my hand-to-hand class. It’ll be fine.”

“You know, if I got a credit for every time you say something’s ‘fine’ when it isn’t, I’d have enough for a week’s worth of fancy coffees from Beans & Brew.”

Jim gave him a skeptical look. “You don’t strike me as a barista-dependent kind of guy.”

McCoy snorted. “I’m not. A good cup of black coffee is more than enough for me.” He used the end of the towel to wipe the water droplets from Jim’s back. “I was trying to make a point.”

“Which I was ignoring because you worry too much.”

“I’m not worried, just observant. C’mon, let’s get you back in bed. I want to give you something for that headache you’re pretending you don’t have.”

It didn’t take too much longer for Jim to dry off and dress, and he heaved a sigh of relief when McCoy turned off the bathroom lights. Leading him by the elbow, McCoy walked him back into the softer light of the bedroom.

“Lie down on the bed and get comfortable. I need to prepare the hypo.”

“I don’t want a hypo. I’m fine.”

“Cha-ching. That’s the sound of another credit dropping into my coffee account.”

“Very funny.”

“Pain is no laughing matter, Jim. You won’t sleep well without medication.”

Jim eased gingerly down on the edge of the bed. “I’m not going to sleep.” He looked up at Bones, his eyes full of shadows. “I never do, after one of these… episodes.” Jim bit his lip. “Maybe I should just go stretch out on the couch. That way, you can have the bed to yourself.”

With casual deliberation, McCoy slipped the medication carpule he’d selected into place and closed his med kit. “There’s plenty of room for both of us. You weren’t complaining last night.”

“I wasn’t thrashing around in bed last night. I could have given you a black eye.”

“You didn’t.”

“But I woke you up. In the middle of the night.”

“Do I look concerned?” When Jim opened his mouth to respond, Leonard held up the hypospray. “That was a rhetorical question, idiot. Shut up and lie back.”

Looking mulish, Jim complied. “Has anyone ever told you that you have authority issues?”

“On several occasions,” Leonard admitted drily. “What about you? You’re more a wolf, yourself, than a sheep. You seem like the type who enjoys defying the status quo.”

“The story of my life.” Jim sighed and relaxed back into the pillow, a silent admission of defeat. “In fact, some would say I’ve earned a PhD in the subject.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Leonard said, placing the hypospray against Jim’s neck with a practiced snap.

Jim hissed when he triggered it. “Ow. Fuck, that burns. Are you sure you gave me the right medication? I don’t remember the others feeling like this.”

_That’s because the others didn’t have a sedative mixed in with the pain medication._

“I’m sure. I always double-check meds before I administer them.” Leonard set the hypospray aside, then reached out and gently rubbed the administration site. “Better?” he asked, after a minute.

“Yeah.” The tension slowly seeped out of Jim’s face and shoulders, and his fisted hands relaxed.

Leonard smiled with satisfaction. The sedative would ensure that Jim wouldn’t be plagued with nightmares while he slept.

“You need anything before I turn the lights off? Some water?”

Jim yawned and his eyelids drooped. “No, ’m good. Had a big drink when I brushed my teeth.” He yawned again, bigger this time, and turned on his side. “Just… tired.”

McCoy tucked the covers in place around Jim, taking care not to brush against his bruised shoulder. “Get some rest. Sleep, if you can,” he advised. He ignored the twinge of conscience his suggestion elicited, knowing sleep was inevitable. The sedative was already pulling the kid under. “And tomorrow, you’re going to eat a decent breakfast or I swear I’m going to make you drink an electrolyte shake with every meal.”

“Sure, Bones, whatever you say,” Jim slurred, as his eyes drifted closed. A moment later, he was snoring softly.

McCoy stood over the sleeping cadet for a long minute.

Night terrors. Possible food issues. A complicated social history, made even more complicated by trauma and abuse.

Every instinct was screaming that the kid was going to be trouble. The smart thing would be to back away from getting involved, tell Kirk he had changed his mind, and hand him over to an experienced physician in Starfleet General’s Internal Medicine department.

McCoy absently rubbed the pale band of skin on his ring finger, thinking hard.

Yeah, well. When had he ever taken the easy road in anything?


	10. Chapter 10

CHAPTER TEN

Ensnared in a dream, McCoy was oblivious to his actual surroundings. Razor-edged memories coiled around him, tighter and tighter, reopening old wounds…

_Leonard kept his hand on the smooth bannister as he descended the stairway, the burnished wood cool and soothing beneath his bare feet. His brain was not yet fully awake, despite the hangover hypo he had self-administered before showering. Thanks to the medication, his thundering kettledrum of a headache was receding but he still felt like his body didn’t quite fit, his stomach queasy, his mouth spitting cotton. The sour taste of old bourbon lingered on his tongue despite his vigorous employment of his toothbrush for a full five minutes._

_He should have stopped after the second glass of bourbon. Now, he needed coffee. Lots of coffee._

_When he reached the wide central hall at the bottom of the stairs, a gentle current of air caressed his face, ruffling the ends of his damp hair. The morning already felt warm and humid, promising another sultry day like yesterday’s, when the mourners at the cemetery had practically melted beneath the heartless burn of the sun’s rays. But then, no one living in this part of the country had expected a temperate day – August weather in Georgia was notorious. Southern folks, proud of their fortitude, referred to such days as “fit as a fiddle for Satan and all his imps.”_

_Leonard figured they were right. The weather had been completely appropriate. For the past five days, he had been living in his own personal hell._

_He made his way on silent feet down the long, gleaming hallway, drawn by the smell of coffee and caramel. He paused in the doorway to the kitchen, the air brushing past him more strongly now. The big room was flooded with sunlight from a half dozen open windows, the brightness an assault to his eyes after the relative dimness of the hall._

_His headache ratcheted up a notch._

_On one of the gleaming counters, a portable comm unit played softly. Choir music, a choice likely made in deference to the day._

_Yesterday’s emotionally draining funeral service, and the luncheon that had followed, had been an endurance test. By the time the last guest departed, Leonard’s nerves had been rubbed raw by the repeated condolences. Last night, exhausted by the day’s demands, Marvelle and his grandmother had decided against attending church today. His relief had been profound. He would have scraped up the courage to accompany his grandmother if she had decreed otherwise, but he was glad not to have to face it all again today._

_The song ended and a new one began. The stirring tune was unexpectedly familiar. Recognition clicked. It was one of the hymns the choir had sung at the funeral service yesterday. One of his daddy’s favorites, the reverend had said._

_Tears pricked his eyes, and he resolutely blinked them away. He wasn’t a child anymore. He was a grown man, a doctor. David McCoy had been a doctor, too._ A better one than you _, a voice whispered in his head. His daddy had been kindhearted and generous. The beloved family physician had been known to shed a tear right along with his young patients when they showed off their ‘owies’ in the exam room._

_Leonard knew he wasn’t that kind of doctor or that kind of man. He had long since learned to keep his emotions hidden and under control. Competence under pressure was the expectation for a successful trauma surgeon._

_David McCoy had never shown any disappointment in Leonard’s choice of medical fields. He had always seemed proud of Leonard’s academic and professional successes. When Leonard had been named Chief of Trauma at Atlanta General, David had enveloped him in a bear hug, proclaiming himself the proudest man in the county._

_That hale, happy man had vanished, over the last eight months. The unstoppable march of the disease had reduced David McCoy to a frail, pain-riddled husk._

_Two weeks ago, David had begged Leonard to release him from his torment._

_Three days ago, Leonard had administered the hypospray that ended David’s life._

_Would David have made the same choice he had, if their positions were reversed? He’d never know for sure. There would be no more late night heart-to-hearts in David’s library. His daddy was gone. ‘At peace’, many of the mourners had said, avoiding Leonard’s gaze even as they gave lip-service to comforting him, as if on some instinctual level they sensed his guilt._

_Leonard squared his shoulders. He needed to quit wallowing in his misery and do his duty as a McCoy. That meant finding the strength to put his own feelings aside. He needed to be strong for his grandmother. He didn’t want her worrying about him when he returned to Atlanta. She had enough on her shoulders now, without the additional burden of his guilty grief._

_Fortunately, ignoring his emotions had long since become a well-honed skill. Collecting himself, he pasted a smile on his face and stepped into the kitchen to greet the woman who had been a second mother to him._

_This kitchen had been the heart of the house for generations of McCoys, updated regularly but never drastically altered. The air was even warmer in here, no doubt due to all the sunshine pouring in, but the strong breeze had the crisp white curtains snapping and dancing at the windows._

_The swirling air felt wonderful against his skin as it swept past to seek the deeper recesses of the house. The breeze played with the dangling ends of his open shirt, blowing the shirttails back, exposing even more of his bare torso. The freshening air, a harbinger of a coming change in the weather, carried the mingled scents of baking and bacon and coffee, teasing his nose, and his stomach growled hungrily in response._

_Marvelle stood at the sink, swaying a little, humming along with the music while she washed dishes. After placing a skillet on the dish rack, she turned, drying her hands on the towel tucked into her apron as she did._

_“Mr. Leo! ‘bout time you woke up, child.” Her ebony skin shone like burnished metal. “I thought you were goin’ to miss breakfast altogether.”_

_“Now, that would be a real crime considering how good your cooking is.” Leonard walked over and wrapped his arms around her sturdy frame in a fierce hug. “Thank you for taking such good care of us, and daddy, Marvelle. Gran and I couldn’t have done it without you.”_

_“That’s what family does, Mr. Leo. It was good to have you back home for a time.” Her dark eyes glistened. “This house is goin’ to be too quiet when you leave, now that Mr. David is gone, the good Lord rest his soul.” A solitary tear trailed down her cheek. “I sure am goin’ to miss your daddy, Mr. Leo. That man always had a hug for me, too, coming and going, especially if there was one of his favorites for dinner. Lordy, that man could eat. I’m gonna miss cooking for him. Miss Elizabeth doesn’t eat enough to keep a bird alive.”_

_“Where is she?” he asked, gently wiping the tear away with his thumb. “The dining room was empty when I walked by it.”_

_“On the veranda. She thought the fresh air and open space would be welcome this morning. Weather folks are predicting thunderstorms early this afternoon, so we’ll close the house up after you leave. We’ll just be lazy and enjoy the cool air-conditioning.” She waved a hand at the counters laden with dishes and containers of all sizes. “That’s just the desserts. Folks have sent over so much food, I won’t have to cook again for a week.”_

_“Smells in here like that might not be completely true,” Leonard said. “Weren’t you the one that taught me it’s a sin to fib?” He clicked his tongue. “And on a Sunday, too.”_

_Marvelle tapped a finger against his chin. It was an old habit left over from his childhood, a loving warning not to sass his elders. “I wanted to cook something this morning I knew you’d enjoy, child, seein’ as it’ll be my last chance for a while. Now, you button that shirt and tuck it in before you go out to Miss Elizabeth’s pretty table. Atlanta may be filled with all manner of rude heathens doin’ as they please, but this house expects better manners.”_

_“Yes, ma’am.”_

_Marvelle nodded approvingly as he complied. “You always were a good boy, Mr. Leo. Hard as it was, you did right by Mr. David.” She pressed a kiss to his forehead, and the gesture threatened his shaky composure. “I’m proud of you, child, and I know he is, too.” She fussed with his collar for a moment. “Now, go on outside, before the scones get cold. There’s a big carafe of coffee on the table to go with them, made just the way you like it.”_

_The veranda, another welcoming space in a house filled with them, looked particularly inviting this morning. Leonard detected his grandmother’s hand in the table setting. The small, circular glass table held an old silver teapot overflowing with pink roses and white stocks, their combined scents sweet and spicy. Soft green and white striped placemats, topped with white china and sparkling crystal glasses, decorated two places at the table. His grandmother already occupied one of the wicker chairs cushioned in a similar shade of green, her gaze on the distant field of horses. The lush green view was already hazy with humidity._

_Leonard gingerly lowered himself into the remaining chair. “My apologies, Gran, for keeping you waiting. I didn’t intend to oversleep.”_

_Elizabeth McCoy transferred her gaze to his, intently searching his face. Whatever she saw must have been reassuring because she smiled. “No harm done. You were up quite late, Leo. I heard your bedroom door close around two.”_

_She didn’t mention the significantly depleted decanter or the empty bourbon glass he’d left behind in the library, or the way he’d stumbled up the stairs, but Leonard was under no illusions that any of it had escaped her attention._

_“I’m sorry for waking you, Gran.”_

_“You didn’t,” she said, filling his water goblet. “It was a long and taxing day for both of us, yesterday. Sleep proved elusive for me, too.”_

_“You could have joined me in the library,” he said, tacitly admitting he’d sought solace in the room’s well-stocked bar. Then he picked up the water glass and drank thirstily._

_“While you McCoy men have always enjoyed a glass of good bourbon as a remedy for chasing away the rigors of the day, I much prefer a hot cup of chamomile tea. I was just too lazy to get up and come downstairs to make myself one.”_

_He didn’t believe that for one minute. He set the goblet down and picked up the coffee carafe. “I would have been happy to make one and bring it to you.” He filled his cup with dark, steaming coffee and then topped up hers, as well. “All you had to do was ask.”_

_“I’ve already asked more of you than was fair, Leo.”_

_Her quiet words nearly undid him. He took a few sips of coffee, looking away from her grave eyes, buying time before he had to respond. When his cup was half empty, he set it down, the china chattering briefly against the saucer._

_“I don’t want to talk about it, Gran.”_

_“Leo—”_

_"We’ve already talked it to death,” he said, flinching as the word ‘death’ passed his lips. “It’s over and done now.”_

_A taut silence fell over the table. Leonard had time to empty his cup and refill it before his grandmother spoke again._

_“Very well. I’ll honor your wishes, for the time being.” She handed him a basket covered with a pristine white napkin. “Marvelle made your favorites this morning. Butter pecan scones and bacon. She’ll be hurt if you don’t eat them. And there’s cantaloupe from the garden in the covered dish.”_

_Leonard reluctantly selected a strip of bacon. Then, picking up a scone, he stoically bit off the tip of the triangle – the ‘wishing piece,’ Marvelle called it. If he had been correctly observing the ritual of his childhood, he would have saved that bite for last, in order to make a wish on it. As a child, when magic still seemed very real and close to hand, he had believed in the ritual, sure that it would grant him whatever he desired, so long as he followed the rules correctly._

_Today, his childhood seemed very far away, buried along with his daddy, and he wondered if he would ever again wish for anything. The one thing he would have sold his soul for hadn’t been within his reach._

_The nut-studded pastry tasted like ashes in his mouth, but he forced himself to chew and swallow the bite before speaking. Talking with a full mouth was not condoned at Elizabeth McCoy’s table._

_“What will you do today, after I leave?” he asked._

_“Write thank-you notes to the people who brought a dish over this past week. Help Marvelle pack up some of the food to give to the needy. Nap. Nothing too strenuous.” She played with a dainty bite of melon, her silver fork catching the light. “I was very disappointed that Jocelyn was unable to come down for the service.”_

_Another landmine he had hoped to avoid. “She’s extremely busy, right now, Gran. The case she’s on has really heated up. It’s headed for an early hearing in federal court. The firm needed her to stay in Washington.”_

_“Her father is the senior partner. Couldn’t he have made an allowance for one day? She’s your wife, and she was David’s daughter-in-law. Family should always come before business, Leo. Her decision was disrespectful. Not at all fitting behavior for a McCoy.”_

_Leonard had made all those arguments and more when he’d pleaded with Jocelyn to set the case aside long enough to attend the funeral. To no avail. He recalled how her image had stared at him impatiently from the comm screen._

“I can’t leave Washington, right now, Len. You know that. I’m knee-deep in briefs. Court reconvenes on Monday and I have to be ready.”

“These last few days were… exhausting, Joce.” He swallowed hard, the surge of tangled grief and loss and guilt forming a sharp-edged knot in his chest. He drew a shaky breath. “I need you here.”

“What about when I needed you?” she retorted, her cold tone abrading his already shredded heart. “You certainly feel entitled to bail on social obligations whenever the hospital crooks its finger at you, Len. You’re the one who got up in the middle of dinner on Christmas Eve and left me with a table of guests to entertain, a number of them from the firm. It was beyond embarrassing.”

“For Christ’s sake, Jocelyn, I told you when you were planning that party that I’d be on-call. I’m the chief of trauma surgery. My hours are unpredictable. It’s the nature of the job. When the hospital needs my help, I have to go in.” 

“Then why should there be a different standard for me, Len? This is an important case and it’s getting a lot of media attention. I’m responsible for making sure we win it. My father owns a majority of the law firm. I have to work harder than anyone else there, to show that I earned my position. Otherwise, people will accuse my father of nepotism.”

“And you believe those same people won’t think badly of you when they find out you refused to attend your father-in-law’s funeral?”

“I doubt anyone will know, since I use ‘Darnell,’ not ‘McCoy,’ professionally. Besides, I didn’t tell anyone that your father was ill and I don’t intend to tell them he died.”

Leonard recoiled as her harsh, unfeeling words struck deep wounds. He could barely believe that the immaculately groomed, cold-eyed woman staring daggers at him from the comm screen was the beautiful, passionate young woman with whom he’d fallen in love. When had self-interest replaced Jocelyn’s warm compassion?

“That’s cold, Joce. My daddy loved you like a daughter.”

Jocelyn bit her lip, and he thought for a moment she might change her mind. Then she threw up her hands. “Len, I’m sorry your father died, but you knew it was going to happen. You told me yourself that Pyrrhoneuritis was incurable, although that didn’t stop you from wasting hundreds of hours searching for a cure. Between your hospital duties and your research, you’ve hardly been home in months. I can’t remember the last time we shared a meal at a nice restaurant or went dancing at the club.”

He felt numb. Dancing? Had she expected him to just shrug off his daddy’s diagnosis and go on with life as usual?

“We need to talk, Joce. Get things straightened out between us. I… I didn’t realize you were feeling ignored.” Leonard rubbed a hand over his face, feeling ancient. “You know I’d never deliberately disappoint you.”

“We can’t talk now, Len. Once this case is over, I’ll come home. We can talk then.” She brushed her hair back with an impatient hand. “I have to go. Clay will be here soon to go over the case, and I still need to finish dressing.”

“Clay Treadway is in Washington with you?”

“Of course. Where else would he be? I told you he’d be traveling with me. He’s one of the second chairs on this case. Weren’t you listening at all when I talked to you about the case?”

Now was definitely not the time to admit that he’d been dead on his feet when they’d talked a week ago, consumed with worry and dread over his daddy’s state of mind as the end drew near. And he wasn’t really worried that Treadway was in Washington with Jocelyn, was he? It was only business, after all.

Besides, Joce knew that Clay Treadway was a self-centered jerk. He had dumped Jocelyn after dating her their freshman year at Ole Miss, intent on making the most of his cachet as the handsome starting quarterback on the football team. Joce had been hurt and humiliated, and Leonard had made every effort to show her how much he cared about her happiness, about _her_ , when they started dating.

They had gotten engaged at the end of her sophomore year. Joce had seemed over the moon when he got down on one knee and proposed, her beautiful face alight with love and joy. They had married as soon as she graduated, holding the elaborate ceremony the summer before she started law school.

Leonard hadn’t given Treadway a second thought in years until the man appeared in Atlanta and began making the rounds in the social circle comprised of Atlanta’s rich and famous trendsetters. Treadway, he discovered, had gone to law school after failing to make the grade as a professional football player.

Jocelyn loved the glittering parties, fitting in easily. Leonard, however, had soon grown tired of the party scene, finding most of the people there shallow at best, interested only in being photographed with the flavor-of-the-month or being the first to uncover a juicy bit of gossip. Hardworking trauma residents, no matter how ‘old money’ they might be, just couldn’t compete.

Fed up with sacrificing what little free time he had as a resident on the altar of Atlanta’s beautiful people’s social calendar, and taxed by the increasing demands of his hospital schedule, Leonard had stopped attending the parties and outings, except on rare occasions. His disinterest hadn’t seemed to matter to Jocelyn. She claimed she was content to party without him – “I need to increase my visibility and the firm’s” – and then come home to Leonard, her ‘dependable rock.’ She seemed as proud of his professional successes as he was of hers.

Admittedly, he had been surprised when Jocelyn told him that Treadway had been offered a position with Darnell, Chancey and Sherrard. “Networking connections, darling,” she had explained. “The partners expect he’ll bring in a lot of new clients.” In the months following, Jocelyn had never acted particularly interested in or bothered by Treadway’s presence at the firm, and had rarely mentioned his name.

But maybe, Leonard thought, his heart beating faster, that had changed. Belatedly, he wondered if Jocelyn had been part of the decision to hire Treadway in the first place.

Now wasn’t the time to ask, though. “Good luck, Joce. We’ll celebrate when you come home.”

Her face softened. “You’re so sure that I’ll win?”

“Sweetheart, you’re a force of nature. I have every confidence in you.”

“Thanks, Len. I’m sorry about your dad. I really am. Give Elizabeth my regards. Bye.” And she was gone.

_“Joce was sorry she couldn’t get away. But she did send that lovely basket of lilies.”_

_Elizabeth gave him a long, thoughtful look. “Is everything all right between the two of you, Leo? The last few times you’ve visited, Jocelyn hasn’t come along.”_

_“We’re fine, Gran. It’s just been a hard year, work-wise, for both of us. Our free time doesn’t often coincide, these days.” Hearing his own words, Leonard realized how feeble his excuses sounded. His stomach clenched. How long had it been since Jocelyn had reached for his hand? He couldn’t remember the last time they’d had sex._

_“Leo, I worry about you. Oh, not about your professional capabilities. I have my own methods for keeping up with how you’re getting on in Atlanta. You’re acknowledged as an intelligent, gifted surgeon with a brilliant reputation, a sharp tongue, and no time for fools – an assessment I quite agree with, by the way. But I also know that, underneath that imposing reputation, you’re very much like David. You care deeply for those you love. As you said, it’s been a hard year. Your heart is grieving, and it’s vulnerable right now. You take care you don’t let your wife tramp all over it in her hurry to grab the brass ring of success.”_

_“Gran…”_

_“I’ll say no more. Now, you finish your breakfast in peace. Have another cup of coffee. We’ll watch the foals try out their legs in the pasture while we eat, and be grateful for this fine morning.”_

_“Yes, ma’am,” Leonard said huskily, and refilled his coffee cup. The rich, bitter aroma filled his nose…_

McCoy woke with a start, his heart pounding. The awareness that he was back in his dorm room, rather than the gracious and stately McCoy family home, was jarring. The dream had seemed utterly real, the grief and guilt and disappointment just as vivid as the day he had first experienced them. He threw a forearm over his eyes, a frail barrier between himself and the painful memories of two years ago. He would swear he could still smell Marvelle’s coffee...

Strangely, the scent of coffee grew stronger in the silent room, rather than slowly fading away along with the dream. Awareness that he was alone in the big bed suddenly inserted itself, and he abruptly sat up, pulse racing, throwing the covers aside. 

What time was it? And where the hell was Kirk? The sedative should have knocked him out for at least six hours. McCoy glanced at the beside chronometer and cursed.

It was nearly 1000 hours.

Concerned, he exited the bedroom at a near run, his mind presenting increasingly worrisome possibilities.

Relief nearly swamped him when he saw Jim sitting at the small dining table, one hand holding a mug, the other tapping away on a PADD.

“How long have you been awake?” McCoy asked, making his way to the empty chair on the other side of the table.

“A while.”

The terse response was coolly polite, and all Leonard’s instincts kicked into high alert. Something had changed, something intangible. He was acutely aware that Kirk felt a million miles away despite being close enough to touch if Leonard leaned across the table.

“You feeling okay?”

“Why do you care? Eager to drug me again?”

McCoy’s gut sank. “How’d you figure it out?”

Jim’s blue gaze was frigid. “Sedatives always leave a weird metallic taste in my mouth. Not to mention,” he said, taking a sip from his mug, “the medication felt different than it did the other times. And I fell asleep about thirty seconds after you injected me.” He saluted Leonard with his mug. “Nice work, doc.”

_“…I’m not going to sleep. I never do, after one of these… episodes…”_

Goddammit, he’d really screwed up. The sedative had apparently been one step too far.

Okay, lesson learned, albeit the hard way. Now, he had to explain his actions to Jim and try to repair the damage he’d done to their doctor-patient relationship… and to their budding friendship.

“You’re angry with me,” Leonard acknowledged. “And I’m sorry, because my decision was well-intentioned. Obviously, from your perspective, giving you a sedative without discussing it with you first was the wrong call. At the time, though, I was exercising my professional judgment. Christ, Jim, you were shaken and wrung out. You needed to sleep. I didn’t think it was the right time to have a debate over the pros and cons of administering something to help you do that.” McCoy rubbed his jaw. “To be completely honest, I suspected you’d refuse the medication, and I wanted to skip an argument you didn’t have the energy to indulge in.”

“I wasn’t going to die from lack of sleep.”

“No, probably not. But you were scraping the bottom of a pretty dry well, stamina-wise. I didn’t think it was going to do you any good to lie awake for the rest of the night, brooding.”

“My body, my choice.”

McCoy eyed the stubborn tilt of Jim’s chin and sighed, feeling both the weight of Jim’s anger and the echo of those same words spoken in a different context, at a different time. “Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, I’d be in agreement with you.”

“But?”

In for a penny… Maybe his decision had already ruptured the tentative trust he had been building with Kirk beyond any repair, but he owed the kid some honest talk.

“But you’re my patient, and I took an oath in medical school to care for my patients to the best of my ability. For me, that doesn’t just mean keeping you physically healthy – although based on your past history and attitude, I can already see _that’s_ going to be a challenge. Bottom-line, you’re in Starfleet, an organization that doesn’t give a rat’s ass about your personal autonomy or feelings. But as your physician, now that I’m aware of your preferences, I’ll try hard to keep my interventions to a minimum, although I strongly suspect this won’t be the last time we butt heads over my medical decisions.”

“I have the right to refuse treatment I don’t agree with.”

“Sure, but only up to a point. Starfleet, remember?”

“I can file an Advanced Care Directive.”

The kid was stubborn as a mule. “I encourage all my patients to do that. But there will still be gray areas that I might have to navigate _for_ you, as your physician. And, again, all of it will fall under the purview of Starfleet regulations.”

“I know,” Kirk said bitterly. “I’ve been there before and it sucks.”

What the hell did that mean? But he had no time to ponder further before Jim spoke again.

“Just promise me that, next time – if there is a next time – you’ll discuss your proposed treatment with me, instead of just making a unilateral decision.”

“Barring an extreme situation where time is of the essence, I have no problem with that request.”

Jim stared at him suspiciously. “Is that doctor-speak for emergencies?”

“Pretty much.”

“I guess I can live with that,” Jim admitted grudgingly. “But, for the record, nightmares aren’t emergencies.”

“It wasn’t a nightmare. It was a night-terror.” Leonard got up to pour himself a much-needed mug of coffee. “Do you get those often?”

Silence.

“Depends,” Jim finally said.

“On?” McCoy asked, sitting down again. Giving Jim some space, he took a long sip of coffee. “That’s damn good coffee, kid,” he blurted, more than a little surprised. He hadn’t expected Kirk to have much proficiency in the kitchen, given his lack of enthusiasm for the meals Leonard had prepared.

Maybe the concussion had skewed Jim’s reactions to food – and his own suppositions about those reactions.

“Thanks,” Jim said absently, his mind clearly elsewhere.

McCoy swallowed another mouthful of coffee, watching the kid over the rim of his mug. When Jim said nothing more, Leonard prodded him again. “I didn’t realize I was asking such a difficult question. Do the night-terrors occur regularly? Rarely? Somewhere in-between? Narrow it down for me.”

“Like I said, it depends.” Jim sighed. “Don’t worry, they don’t happen all that frequently.”

“Can you identify a trigger?”

Jim shrugged. “Not really.” He toyed with his mug, turning it from side to side in short arcs, the scraping sound amplified by the room’s quiet.

Leonard was fluent in ‘I’m-uncomfortable-talking-about-this.’ With Jim this withdrawn, pressing him harder for information would likely be counterproductive. But he did have one final question he wanted to ask while he had the chance.

“Is it always the same dream?”

Jim shook his head. “No, they vary. Mostly about experiences from… my childhood.”

Well, shit. Of all the skills he learned in med school, changing the past wasn’t one of them.

McCoy leaned forward and put a hand on Jim’s forearm. “If you ever want to talk about them, I’m here and willing to listen.”

Jim smiled crookedly. “I wouldn’t want to give you nightmares, Bones. But thanks for offering.”

If the kid was calling him ‘Bones’ again, maybe he was being given a second chance.

“Everyone has nightmares, Jim. Including me. But you displayed the classic signs of a night-terror, which is a more serious matter. If they become frequent, I can prescribe medication—”

“Drugs aren’t an option,” Jim interrupted. “First Years get hazed a lot by the dorm leader. I might sleep through a surprise room inspection. Or, a Red Alert, when I’m captain.” He reached for his coffee mug, dislodging Leonard’s hand. “Stop worrying about me. I’ve had bad dreams before. Other than losing a little sleep, I’ve been fine. I’m not a little kid anymore. I can handle it.”

McCoy was beginning to hate the word ‘fine,’ but he knew when to back off.

“Okay. But you’ll be under closer scrutiny at the Academy, with regular checkups required for some of your Command Track classes. So, fair warning, I’ll be the first to know if you’re not.”

“Trust me. It won’t be a problem.”

McCoy hoped he was right. Jim sounded confident, and clearly considered the matter closed. But based on what Leonard had read in the kid’s chart, Jim had experienced a lot of loss and trauma in his early childhood, with no indication that he had undergone therapy for any of it. On the other hand, the kid’s medical records were missing a lot of information, so it was possible therapy had occurred without it being recorded in his chart…

Either way, now wasn’t the time to ask. Taking a final swallow of his now-tepid coffee, Leonard rose. “I’m going to grab a quick shower. Then I’ll make us some breakfast. How does French toast and bacon sound?”

“With butter and maple syrup?”

“Or confectioner’s sugar and berries. Your choice.” McCoy cast a stern eye on Jim. “But no more coffee until we eat.”

Jim snapped off a smart salute and pushed his mug to the center of the table. “Whatever you say, Bones.”

“I only wish,” McCoy grumbled, and headed for the bathroom.

* * *

McCoy was watching Jim devour the last bite of his fourth piece of syrup-soaked French toast when the door chimed.

“Finish up. I’ll be right back.”

When he opened the door, a middle-aged man swathed in a buttoned gray cape and precisely angled cap handed him a large bag and a shrouded hanger. “Courtesy of the quartermaster,” he said, and strode away, cape tails swinging, before McCoy could even say a proper ‘thank-you.’

Leonard hefted the load into better balance, used his elbow to hit the button to close the door, and made his way back to the dining area.

Jim looked up from his empty plate. “Looks like someone’s been shopping. What’d you get?”

“It’s not for me,” McCoy said, setting the bag on the kitchen counter. He hung the clothes bag on the head jam of the archway between the kitchen and the dining area of the living room. “It’s for you. Some sweats and underthings, and a uniform to replace the one I cut off you in the emergency room.”

Jim looked surprised, then pleased. “Nice. Thanks, Bones. I wasn’t looking forward to dashing barefooted across campus in scrubs and risking a demerit.”

“As if I was going to let that happen,” Bones scoffed. “You’d freeze before you made it back to your room. With your luck, you’d get pneumonia.”

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a pessimist?”

“Several times.”

“Several times a day, I bet,” Jim replied cheekily. “I told you, I’m tougher than I look. Not that I don’t appreciate the clothing.”

“Even in your uniform, it’s going to be a brisk walk, but at least it’s not raining.”

“I’ll be fine.” Jim pushed back in his chair and got to his feet. “I suppose I’d better get dressed and get out of your hair. I’ve taken up enough of your weekend.”

“Not so fast, Hot Shot. Your 48-hour observation window won’t be up until after six tonight.” McCoy crossed his arms. “I’d prefer you stay put until then, given what I’ve seen of your dorm room and your roommates. Besides, I plan on making spaghetti and meatballs for dinner for us.”

“It would be hard to pass up spaghetti and meatballs,” Jim admitted. He stretched, then yawned hugely.

Suspecting the dregs of the sedative were still in his system, Leonard suggested, “Why don’t you go grab a nap while I set things to rights in the kitchen?”

“I always get sleepy when I eat too much,” Jim groused, rubbing his forehead. “Sorry.”

“For what?”

“Being completely useless. You’ve spent your first free weekend stuck here, looking after me, instead of getting out and exploring the city.”

McCoy waved off the apology. “Don’t worry about it. There’ll be plenty of time for sightseeing later. If you behave yourself, maybe I’ll let you play sous chef tonight.” He watched Jim closely. Under the lights, the kid looked pale, and faint shadows marred the skin beneath his eyes.

Jim yawned again. “Deal.”

“You want something for your headache?” Leonard asked, keeping his tone deliberately casual as he gathered up his dirty plate to put it in the recycler.

Jim hesitated. “Pills?” he asked hopefully.

“Sorry,” McCoy said, shaking his head. “The medicine cabinet is empty at the moment. The med kit from the hospital is all I have right now.”

“Why isn’t my headache gone? I thought you said the regen and the meds you gave me in the emergency room would take care of it.”

“The Gafronil takes a full forty-eight to seventy-two hours to do its work. By this time tomorrow – or sooner if you’re lucky – your headache will be a thing of the past.”

“So this is your last chance to stab me in the neck before I leave?”

“Pretty much,” McCoy admitted. “Unless you expect me to make a house call tonight. So, you want the medication or not?” He shifted, aware of the tension in his shoulders as he waited for Jim to make his decision, feeling as if more was at stake than a simple injection.

“Sure, Bones,” Jim said easily, and led the way to the bedroom.


	11. Chapter Eleven

CHAPTER ELEVEN

McCoy glanced up as Jim exited the bedroom, freshly showered and shaved, dressed in the new, red uniform pants and black undershirt. The pants gaped a bit at the kid’s narrow waist but the black shirt clung tightly to his leanly muscled shoulders and chest. Either the measurements on file in the quartermaster’s office – likely taken the day Jim had enlisted – were wrong or the kid had lost weight over the last month.

McCoy was betting on the latter.

He subjected Jim to a close perusal, feeling a little proud as he viewed the results of his handiwork. There was no visible evidence of the trauma the kid had sustained just forty-eight hours ago. Outwardly, Jim was an eye-catching example of the perfect Academy cadet. 

“How’s your headache?”

“Nearly gone.” Jim cocked his head, his blonde hair catching the light. “You don’t need to worry about me anymore, Bones. I’m good.”

The captivating facade McCoy had first encountered in the mess hall had been re-donned along with the uniform. A fragment of a poem he had learned in high school came to mind: _“…H_ _e fluttered pulses when he said,_ _‘Good-morning,’ and he glittered when he walked.”_ That description fit Kirk like a bespoke suit. But there had been unseen, dark depths to the man in the poem, and McCoy had good reason now to suspect the same was true of Jim Kirk.

Apprehension, mingled with protectiveness, stirred. “You can still change your mind and stay tonight,” he offered.

“Thanks, Bones, but I need to get back to my room and check things out. Make sure the guys are okay, in case Finnegan orders another snap room inspection tomorrow. Kissen is a slob at heart. He’s already got four demerits to work off with extra PT hours, so I want to make sure his area of the room is shipshape. Besides, I’ve got Advanced Warp Mechanics at 0700 tomorrow.”

McCoy blinked in disbelief. “You signed up for a class at seven o’clock in the _morning?_ Voluntarily? On a Monday? Are you insane?”

Jim laughed, his arresting blue eyes dancing. “It was the only way I could fit it into my schedule this semester. It’s a pre-req for Theoretical Warp Design, which is only given second semester. I can’t afford to wait and take TWD next year. I told Pike I was going to graduate in three years instead of four, and I’m a man of my word.”

“Three years? Just how many credits are you taking this semester?”

“Twenty-five. Seven classes total, not counting the ones I challenged.”

McCoy shuddered. “I’d rather poke my eyes out than carry a load like that. No wonder you’ve got no damned time to eat and sleep.” But curiosity had him asking, “How’d you do with the challenge exams?”

“Piece of cake.” Jim grinned smugly. “Barnett was pissed because I passed them all with flying colors. He had been so sure I was biting off more than I could chew. Pompous old fart. He’s been behind a desk too long. Nogura was almost as bad. But I proved them both wrong, along with the rest of their doubting cronies on the Academy Board.”

“Are you bragging about making enemies of the entire Academy Board?” McCoy asked, incredulous. “Sweet Jesus, kid, do you have a death wish? Are you sure you didn’t have brain damage _before_ that chunk of concrete fell on your head?”

If anything, Jim’s smiled widened. “Not the entire Board, Bones. Archer and Lui were completely on my side. Archer even wished me luck. Said it was about time someone shook things up a little. Archer’s a good guy. He’s one of the few admirals who doesn’t have a stick up his ass.”

McCoy wondered if Kirk was really that confident. So far, everyone he’d met at the Academy, whether cadets, instructors, or other officers at the hospital, talked about the higher-ups like they walked on water. Jim made them sound like a bunch of fussy, old men. “Where is your advisor in all of this? Isn’t he worried you’re taking on too much?”

“Commander Gliss? She’s great. And she’s a Caitian. Caitains – females in particular – love pretty things, Bones.” Jim arched his back, mimicking a Caitian preen. All he needed was a tail to swish to make the pose perfect. “The commander finds it very hard to tell me ‘no’ when I ask for something.”

McCoy snorted. “My guess is she’s not the only one.”

Jim straightened, laughing. “I’m not sure what you’re implying,” he said, the picture of innocence. “You don’t seem to have any trouble, Bones.”

“Any first year resident worth his salt learns how to do that,” McCoy retorted. “Speaking of which, this sounds like a good time to review your marching orders until I see you again. Is Friday, after classes, a good time for your clearance checkup? I have an Emergency Room shift at the hospital starting at 1900. If you come by around 1830, I can see you before I get busy with patients.”

“Sure, sounds fine. It’s not going to take long, is it?”

“It shouldn’t, unless you misbehave this coming week.” He fixed Jim with a stern look. “And believe me, I’ll know, when I review the scans.”

“Jeez, Bones, all that sentence is missing at the end is ‘young man.’ You sound like you’re about to send me to my room without supper.” He stared at McCoy, eyes gone remote and unreadable. “I’m not a little kid. And, just for the record? Threats have never worked all that well on me.”

McCoy could have kicked himself. If Jim’s medical records were anything to judge by, going to bed hungry was no doubt one of the lighter punishments he had endured as a child.

“Not a threat, just a fair warning,” he said deliberately, striving to relieve the tension he could see in Jim’s stiff shoulders, “seeing as how you seem hellbent on returning to activities that most people would avoid if they could.” He took Jim’s small smile as a sign of progress. “If you want me to release you from your medical restrictions on Friday, I don’t want to find any signs that your concussion hasn’t fully healed when I do your exam.”

Looking more mollified, Jim reached for the red jacket laid across the chairback. “So what’s on the forbidden list?” he asked, shrugging into it.

“Excessive exertion, alcohol, caffeine and participating in any activities that might result in another blow to the head. Your brain is still healing, Jim. The Gafronil injection I gave you will mitigate the damage from the concussion, but you can undo all its benefits if you push things too soon.”

McCoy watched the wheels turn as Kirk mulled over the restrictions. He fastened the jacket and tugged on the hem, settling it into place. “Okay, Bones. One dull week coming up. What else?”

“Adequate nutrition and rest. I want you to keep track of what you eat, and when, and how much sleep you get each night. I’ll send you a link to the standard medical diary and you can load it on your PADD,” he said, and braced himself for resistance.

But Jim simply shrugged, and repeated, “What else?”

“Nothing. Using some common-sense should take care of anything that comes up, but if you’re uncertain, go with the opposite of your first instincts.”

Jim gave him a dark look, but his lips were twitching. “Very funny, Bones. I think you’ve got me all wrong. I can be very cautious when the situation warrants it.”

“Well, I’m more of a ‘seeing is believing’ kind of guy. And so far…”

“I’ve managed on my own for years, Bones, and I’m still in one piece.”

“Your guardian angel must be exhausted, kid.”

Jim rolled his eyes. “Whatever.” He picked up the bag containing his extra clothing, and tucked his new PADD inside. “Are you free Saturday night?”

“You mean you haven’t already hacked my schedule to find out for yourself? And don’t bat those innocent blue eyes at me, kid. I’m not stupid. I’ve had plenty of time to figure out you must have done some snooping in places you shouldn’t have access to, considering what you seem to know about me.”

Jim didn’t even bother feigning a guilty expression. He patted the bag over the outline of the PADD. “I haven’t had a chance to do my usual modifications, Bones. All my tools are in my dorm room. Figured it was easier to just ask.” He grinned. “I don’t want someone else to beat me to the punch.”

McCoy was torn. He _should_ be ripping a strip off Jim for taking unnecessary risks in order to satisfy his curiosity, but Leonard had a strong feeling anything he said would be like water off a duck’s back. Hacking Starfleet’s protected data bases was no amateur feat. Anyone caught committing such an act would be immediately expelled and, depending on the nature of the breach, likely prosecuted as well. Jim’s unrepentant, ‘no big deal’ attitude clearly implied he was confident of his abilities.

_Confident he won’t get caught, too_ , McCoy thought sardonically. Sighing, he abandoned that tricky avenue of discussion and focused instead on Jim’s question. “Saturday night? My dance card is wide open. Why?”

“Meet me for dinner and drinks. My way of saying ‘thanks’ for all you’ve done for me.”

“No need, kid,” McCoy said, waving away the offer. “Anyone in my shoes would have done the same.”

“Give up their entire weekend to take care of a stranger?” Jim scoffed. “I don’t think so, Bones. That first doctor I saw? Yang? He was ready to boot me out the door just to get me out of his hair.”

“A fact that has not escaped my attention, and one I will be addressing with young Dr. Yang the next time our schedules coincide.”

Jim grinned, white teeth flashing. “Don’t be too hard on him, Bones. I have a talent for pissing doctors off. So, Saturday?”

“Okay, kid, on one condition: pick a place where the music isn’t loud enough to rupture my eardrums or doesn’t have seizure-inducing lighting.”

“Damn. That eliminates The Supernova and All Systems Go,” Jim said sassily. “Which is too bad, because they’re great places to pick up women. You don’t know what you’re missing, Bones.”

“I’ll live,” McCoy said drily.

“But will you be having fun while you do? Life is short, Bones.”

“My grandfather was a hundred and twenty-three when he passed. My great-grandmother was even older when her time came. McCoys tend to be long-lived.” He refused to listen to the little voice that whispered in the back of his head, “ _But your daddy wasn’t so lucky, was he?”_

“Good to know I can count on you to outlive me.”

“Why’s that?” McCoy asked sharply. “Are you planning on dying anytime soon?”

“And miss all the fun and games the Academy is dishing out? Hardly.”

“What, then?”

“Kirks are like comets. They travel fast and far, but they blaze out early. Mesmerizing to watch, but soon gone.” Despite Jim’s jocular tone, his gaze was pensive. “So don’t take it personally when the universe decides my time is up. It won’t have anything to do with your skills as a doctor.”

“Bullshit.”

Jim looked at him, startled. “What?”

“I know hogwash when I hear it. Oh, it sounds poetic and pretty, but there’s absolutely no scientific proof that hereditary family curses exist.”

“So what would you call the fact that Kirks tend to die young?”

“Bad choices, or no choices, or just plain bad luck.” McCoy pursed his lips. “Career choice has a lot to do with it, too, Jim. I’m a doctor and my daddy and his daddy were doctors. Not a lot of physical risk in the medical profession. But I’m guessing that’s not the case with your family. Both your parents enlisted. Anybody else?”

“My grandfather on my dad’s side, and his brother. And their dad.”

McCoy nodded. He’d suspected something along those lines. “Space is not exactly a safe playground.”

“‘ _Disease and danger wrapped in darkness and silence.’_ I remember what you said, Bones. But it’s beautiful out in the black, too.”

“Just because something’s pretty doesn’t mean it isn’t deadly. Life expectancy in space is statistically significantly shorter, compared to that same individual living a life on Earth. Military service carries additional risks. Factoring that in, it’s hardly surprising your family died before their time, if they served in space.”

Jim was silent for a long moment. “Maybe,” he conceded, but he didn’t sound convinced. “Still,” he said, brightening, “that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy ourselves in the meantime. I’ll comm you with a time and location for Saturday.”

“Or you can tell me on Friday.”

“Just because you’re my doctor doesn’t mean we can’t be friends, Bones. And friends comm each other.”

McCoy rolled his eyes. “We’re not in high school, for Christ’s sake.”

“Wouldn’t know,” Jim said breezily, picking up the bag. “I didn’t go to high school. You can tell me all about what that was like, on Saturday night.”

McCoy stared, stunned into silence, as Jim headed for the door.

“Enjoy your evening, Bones,” he said with a grin and, triggering the door, tossed him a little salute with his fingers before he stepped into the hallway.

The door slid shut, stranding McCoy like a fish out of water.

“What the hell?” he breathed, his brain spinning.

When enlightenment failed to arrive, he rubbed his jaw and headed for the bourbon.

He needed a drink.

He needed to think.

He needed some answers.

* * *

Two bourbons later, he had precious little to show for his effort.

The Starfleet Academy network had yielded little he hadn’t already known. To be truthful, there had been more information in Jim’s medical chart than in his official Academy enrollment bio entry. Leonard suspected full access was restricted for cadets, since all he had been able to discover was Jim’s name, date of enlistment, comm number, assigned advisor, and study track.

_Command._

Leonard had assumed Jim was enrolled in the engineering track, given the names of the classes the kid said was taking, but he realized, in retrospect, that his assumption had been just plain stupid. Of course Jim had chosen command. After forty-eight hours in the kid’s company, Leonard was acutely aware that Jim was vastly more comfortable giving orders than taking them.

Stymied for the moment, he had pulled up Jim’s medical chart and finished reading the material from IUH. By the time he was done, he had learned a great deal more about Jim’s recovery – and numerous setbacks – from the Danthers-Duseault therapy. Leonard had read with interest the debate amongst a group of specialists on whether Jim’s prematurity and exposure to radiation as a newborn were adversely affecting his recovery, and he made a mental note to research that topic more thoroughly in the near future.

The records relating to Jim’s assault were no easier to read about, the second time around, and the harrowing information, brought vividly to life by his own surgical experiences and memories of trauma patients from his past, had Leonard reaching for his drink several times. The kid – and he really _had_ been a kid – had nearly died from his injuries. In fact, from a strictly medical perspective, Jim had experienced death twice on the OR table when he’d flatlined during surgery, requiring extensive resuscitation efforts both times.

It was a fucking miracle Jim Kirk had survived to enlist at all.

Next, he’d tried following the trail of the few crumbs of hard information recorded in the social worker’s assessment.

If their antiquated website was to be believed, the Washington County Health Department still existed, but scanning their homepage soon revealed that they offered little more than free, routine immunizations for those who qualified financially (by appointment only) and well-water testing. Social work was no longer listed under ‘Available Services,’ and his Starfleet medical ID returned nothing except _No Records Found_ when he entered Jim’s name in the patient prompt.

Disappointing, but not surprising, given the number of intervening years. And juvenile records were notoriously hard to access, under the best of circumstances.

From there, he had tried an online search of Frank Hawthorne’s name, and his diligence had been rewarded with two small pieces of information.

The first was an article in the _Riverside Current,_ where it was reported that a Frank Hawthorne, age thirty-nine, had been named as the defendant in a small-claims court hearing, accused of passing a bad check at the Riverside Stop and Shop. Four years later, a slightly longer article in the same newspaper revealed: _“Mr. Frank Hawthorne, a resident of Riverside, was arrested for assault and battery of a juvenile. According to the deputies involved, Mr. Hawthorne violently resisted arrest, voiced multiple threats of further harm toward the juvenile in question, and was placed in the county jail, pending further charges.”_

Leonard hadn’t been able to find any further information on the man, which was mystifying. Hadn't there been a trial? Lawyer statements to the press? Where were the typical follow-up pieces, with statements from local people in the community who had known the family? Given the seriousness of Jim’s condition, the complete absence of subsequent information made no sense.

Baffled, he had entered Jim’s name in the search window, expecting the PADD to return multiple entries he would have to spend time wading through. Jim was the _Kelvin_ baby, after all. A media sensation at the time and still the object of profound curiosity and speculation.

It was only just occurring to Leonard what a coup Starfleet would have considered Jim’s enrollment to be, how loudly they’d want to trumpet the arrival of a revered hero’s son on campus, ready to follow in his father’s footsteps. Pike had mentioned forestalling some kind of media event associated with the explosion when he’d spoken with Jim yesterday. Granted, Leonard had been preoccupied, wallowing in his own self-created hell, during those first days on campus, but he didn’t remember any kind of buzz about Jim making its rounds on campus or at the hospital. Had Pike similarly intervened when Jim enlisted? 

Leonard wondered how many of the higher-ups had yet to realize that they had enrolled a maverick instead of a grateful conformist.

As he had expected, the screen filled with row after row of entries. Scrolling slowly, Leonard could see they were, for the most part, from the same general time period – the first few months after the destruction of the Kelvin. Picking one at random, he opened the article.

The photo of a woman dressed in formal grays, peaked cap shadowing her face, accompanying a mobile isolette, leapt out at him. The caption under the photo stated: _Lieutenant Commander Winona Kirk arrives on Earth with newborn son._

Leonard began reading the accompanying article.

_Six weeks after the destruction of the_ USS Kelvin, _Lieutenant Commander Kirk and her son, along with the surviving ship crew, arrive on Earth. A throng of family and friends awaited, eager to embrace their loved ones upon their return. When interviewed, they all expressed their deep gratitude for Captain George Kirk’s ultimate sacrifice._

_“George Kirk’s heroism will be acknowledged with full honors,” Admiral Parker, head of Starfleet’s Public Relations Department, informed the press. “Now that the survivors are safely home, the dedication ceremony in memory of Captain George Kirk’s heroic actions will take place soon. We will release additional information on the schedule of events later today.”_

_The battle that resulted in the_ USS Kelvin’s _destruction took place on 2233.04, while the_ USS Kelvin _was orbiting a star near the Federation-Klingon border. While investigating a nearby anomaly, a previously unidentified black hole, the_ USS Kelvin _was attacked by a vessel of unrecognized design, and destroyed. Unnamed sources assert that the unknown ship was mammoth, with formidable weaponry, and that it appeared to be crewed by Romulans. Through diplomatic channels, the Romulan Empire has vehemently denied responsibility for the attack._

_Starfleet Command has declared January 4 th to be known henceforth as Remembrance Day. Plans are to observe that day annually with a solemn ceremony, allowing the citizens of the Federation to acknowledge and honor the courage displayed by the brave crew of the _USS _Kelvin, and to mourn their loss._

_Investigation of the incident continues and_ …

Leonard wasted several hours reading innumerable articles containing the same photo and much the same information. The majority of the early ones focused on George Kirk’s sacrifice for his family, avidly reporting on Jim’s birth aboard the escaping medical shuttle. Over the following days, the focus slowly changed to the mournful and solemn pageantry accompanying the delayed ceremony.

But there were no new photos of Winona Kirk or Jim attached to the articles. Even more oddly, she was absent from the review stand occupied by the dignitaries and admirals. One article referenced a statement from Starfleet PR: _“Commander Winona Kirk’s health prevents her from attending today’s ceremony. For that reason, her promotion has occurred in absentia, and Starfleet wishes her a speedy and complete recovery. Commander Kirk respectfully requests that you honor her wishes for privacy during this difficult period of adjustment. Our thoughts and prayers continue to be with her and her family. ”_

At that point, on a whim, he had deleted Jim’s name from the search window and entered Winona’s, hoping to find some trace of Jim.

Three entries he hadn’t already seen popped up.

One was a link to Starfleet which, when he opened it, gave him the same basic information about her that it had for Jim – her name, enlistment date, current rank, and current deployment assignment. There was no comm number listed. According to the entry, Commander Winona Kirk was serving aboard the _USS Fitzgerald_ , all of which told him a whole lot of nothing.

The second entry was a brief article and photo in the _Riverside Current,_ appearing under the banner _Current Events_.

_Lieutenant George Samuel Kirk and Lieutenant Winona Katherine Davis exchange wedding vows._

_The couple met at the Starfleet Academy in San Francisco, and were married immediately after graduation. They will be serving together on the USS Baxter. Admiral Kirk (retired) and his wife, Audrey Kirk, residents of Riverside, were in attendance. Riverside residents wish the newlyweds a long and happy marriage!_

The accompanying photo showed a young man and woman, he in formal Starfleet whites and she in a long, simple white gown, in front of an elaborate water fountain. They were laughing and holding hands, her veil floating behind her like a banner on the breeze. Waterdrops, like diamonds, glittered in the air around them.

Leonard’s breath caught as he enlarged the photo for a closer look at their faces. The resemblance between Jim and his dad was uncanny. Tagging the photo, he saved it to a separate file.

The third article was one from the _Weekly World Word,_ a notorious tabloid, with the lurid headline: _Grieving Widow Goes Crazy!!!_ The article consisted of a photo, with a few lines of text following. Leonard ignored the text – his attention was riveted on the photo.

Winona Kirk, clad in a blouse and skirt, with her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, stood on a porch, the door to the house behind her half open. Everything about her screamed a warning: the determined set of her mouth and shoulders, her cold stare – and the phaser in her right hand. Her feet were planted in the ‘Fleet-approved shooter’s stance, her right arm extended level and straight. A blanket-wrapped baby, invisible except for a few white-blonde curls, lay in the crook of her left arm. A young boy, his mouth and eyes twins of Winona’s own, clung to her skirt, tears streaking his face.

Leonard pulled his eyes from the photo to read the text. Mercifully, despite the damning content, it was brief.

_Commander Winona Kirk, illegally armed with a phaser, orders us off her property. Her stay on the family farm, located in the desolate Iowa prairie, has obviously done nothing to soothe her grief or reconcile her to the loss of her husband. Little wonder Starfleet has banished her to the isolation of the Kirk homestead, where she can’t harm law-abiding citizens. We can only hope her sons survive her care._

Leonard looked at the photo again. “ _…her sons survive…”_

He took a sip of bourbon and rubbed his chin. All the odd, little clues and mysteries he’d noted since arriving in the Emergency Room and making Jim’s acquaintance were now a jumble in his mind, refusing to fit together into a coherent picture.

Jim was clearly brilliant but the kid confessed he hadn’t gone to high school. Why not? Had he graduated early? Been home schooled? No, Leonard thought belatedly, remembering Jim’s medical history. Home schooling wasn’t a possibility; Winona Kirk had gone back into space when Jim was five, according to Jim’s hospitalization records. So where had Jim received his education, an education thorough enough to allow him to challenge – and pass – the Academy’s entry level courses? They were the kind of classes, discounting the medical ones, that most cadets – himself included – worked damn hard at.

And where was Jim’s brother? Leonard quickly checked the Starfleet data base. Perhaps Jim wasn’t the only one following in his parents footsteps…

But the search for both a Sam Kirk and a Samuel Kirk returned the same message: _No information found._

According to the social worker’s notes, Sam Kirk was four years older than Jim, which would make him twenty-six or -seven now, depending on the date of his birthday. Jim hadn’t mentioned a brother, and he had chosen to come home with Leonard rather than stay in the hospital. If there had been a third option, like a brother living nearby, wouldn’t he have taken it? For that matter, why wasn’t a sibling listed in the Family History section of Jim’s chart?

Jim acted and spoke like he was on his own in the world. Winona was in space, and had clearly functionally abandoned Jim early in his life. But Jim wasn’t an only child. Where was Sam Kirk? Back in Iowa? Or had Sam been like Jim, so anxious to shake off his connection to Earth that he had immigrated off-world in search of an easier life for someone bearing the last name of Kirk?

And there was another growing mystery… Where the hell had Jim and his brother lived after Frank Hawthorne was arrested? A relative stranger, Hawthorne had been appointed guardian to Jim and Sam when Winona Kirk returned to active duty because no other option was available for their day-to-day care. Had Sam tried to stop the assault on his little brother or had he been away from the farm at the time? Sam would have been sixteen when Jim was nearly beaten to death, so not legally an adult, and therefore unable to assume care for himself and Jim. So what arrangements had been made for the two boys?

Had Winona been forced to take family emergency leave when the hospital contacted her? After Jim was discharged, had she stayed in Iowa on the farm to look after both Jim and Sam until Jim turned eighteen?

The absence of any information regarding the ten-year gap in Jim’s life story was like an itch under Leonard’s skin, creating a vague sense of worry and foreboding. Which was ridiculous because, as Jim himself had said only hours ago: _“You don’t need to worry about me anymore, Bones. I’m good.”_ But the years between age twelve and now covered a lot of important territory.

Leonard wondered how much Commandant Pike knew about Jim’s personal history. The man had sounded like he cared about Jim. But, thinking back on it now, Leonard realized there had been a troubling undertone to Pike’s side of the conversation. When Pike talked with Jim, he had used the same soft tone of voice Leonard used on a skittish colt, calm, soothing… and careful. As if Pike were afraid Jim might bolt from the Academy, if he were badly spooked?

According to Jim, Pike had made his acquaintance when Jim was a very young child. That must have been in Iowa, on the Kirk farm, so apparently the captain had found a way around Winona Kirk’s phaser. Did that contact account for Pike’s willingness to give Jim a shot at the Academy, or had there been some other motivation? What did Pike know about Jim Kirk that Leonard didn’t, or hadn’t yet been able to uncover?

Even discounting Jim’s concussion, the kid was difficult to get a bead on. Jim Kirk was like a particularly fascinating lenticular image – depending on the angle you viewed him from, what you saw changed right before your eyes. Or maybe it was more like watching a magician who could pull off such amazing tricks that you never saw the sleight of hand.

Leonard suspected most folks saw what they expected, or wanted, to see. A charming smile, a handsome face, a famous name. And that seemed to suit Jim just fine – if you judged him by outward appearances.

Leonard didn’t intend to make that mistake.

He emptied his glass and carried it to the kitchen. The silence in the apartment mocked the privacy he had guarded so fervently since his arrival in San Francisco. Truth to tell, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had an intimate conversation with someone. Jocelyn, maybe, before she’d thrown him over for Clay. Dad, before he’d gotten too ill and weak to enjoy a Saturday afternoon bourbon. Or Gran, before she had pleaded—

No. He wasn’t going there. Not right before bed.

Leonard rinsed the glass and put it in the refresher.

Jocelyn had managed their social life, and their friends had all become her friends, after the separation and divorce. The few people he’d counted as friends in medical school at Ole Miss had long since vanished, lost to time and distance and his marriage.

Jim seemed to want his friendship, and no one had wanted that in a long time.

On Saturday, he would try and discover whether the overture was genuine.

And if he managed to also discover the answers to a question or two in the process, that would be a sweet and satisfying bonus.

THE END (FOR NOW)

* * *

Thus, dear readers, ends the first arc in Academy Life or: How Two Genius Loners Met and Became BFFs Despite Themselves. There are more arcs to come in this story. Patience, however, will be required while you wait for the next posting.

The fourth J.J. Blacklocke book, which is nearly complete, is demanding its turn at the keyboard. One it is finished, a new Jim and Bones arc will commence 

NOTE: The line of poetry which appears in McCoy's thoughts is from "Richard Cory" written by Edwin Arlington Robinson. Like Bones, I studied this poem in high school.

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my website at www.jjblacklocke.com if you’d like to know more about me and my writing.


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